The Saga of Boy
by JoGeek
Summary: A half-elf boy travels a world where elves are only forgotten fairy tales; running from memories of fire and blood, sent on a quest only half understood. But who needs Gods, when they have luck on their side? Rating for violence, language.
1. Fire on the Farm

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**CHAPTER 1: ****Fire on the Farm**

_Mayana__ opened her eyes and saw him standing over the crib with his forehead wrinkled in thought. He reached out one hand to straighten a blanket over the sleeping child and the faint glimmer of tears on his face caught the fey light of the moon outside their window. An uneasy presentiment kept her from stirring as she watched, and she closed her eyes again in a pretense of sleep. Her lover lifted their baby son from the crib and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. He spoke to the child in a language familiar to her, but alien to other humans._

_"Peace, my son. I gave up everything to have you, and now it is the hardest thing in the world to leave you."_

_He carefully embraced the baby and laid it back in its crib, reluctantly pulling his hand away from the tiny fist that grasped his thumb. With a shuddering breath he turned towards the bed, where his keen eyes caught the flutter of Mayana's eyelids._

_"May love, my love…"_

_She gave up the pretense and threw back the covers. She darted across the floor in her bare feet and embraced him fiercely. _

_"Your child is barely born!" She sobbed into his cloak, "and you're leaving again?"_

_He smoothed the long hair away from her face and whispered soothingly, "May love, my love…I must, but I don't know for how long. I could be back before you know it!"_

_"Or you could leave us forever and your son could grow up never knowing you."_

_"May love, better for him to grow up without a father than to never live to grow up at all.__ My people are forbidden to travel here, and if they knew of him they would hunt you both down to kill."_

_"Then stay and protect us!" _

_He shook his head in sorrow. Sobbing, she clutched the edges of his cloak and pulled him closer to her. _

_"Then promise me you'll come back, damn you. I want your word!"_

_His eyes suddenly reflected his hundreds of years of life, his expression weary and harried. "I promise May, all right? I promise that I'll come back as soon as I can."_

Nathanial Holt ducked his head and went for the boy's knees, just like Brand had taught him. He even remembered to tuck in his legs and elbows to better effect what Brand had dubbed the "Sling Bullet Tackle." The bully was no lightweight, but he went down with a satisfying crunch just the same and the crowd cheered at the audible crack of his skull on the flagstone. Nathanial didn't stop to count his own bruises from the impact, but continued to roll clear and scrambled to his feet to appraise the fight's progress. He saw that Brand had the two oldest brothers under control, fighting with a full-throated ferocity and lack of ethical constraint that always startled and intimidated his attackers regardless of how many times they'd tangled with him in the past. Nathanial circled the three anxiously, searching for his opening and trying to ignore the shouts and suggestions from the ring of boys who'd drifted in on the instinctive lure of violence. They stood around the fight as close as they dared, cheering with an adolescent appreciation of bloodshed and half-serious, half jealous outrage at the dirty tricks on both sides. Brand's fights were always a good show, as long as you weren't the one he was fighting.

Nathanial saw an opportunity in the younger brother's lack of balance and seized his flapping shirt tail. He jabbed the boy in the soft back of the knee with one foot, then rocked backwards using all the weight he could muster. The bully released his grip on Brand's hair and sprawled on his back in the dirt, howling and cursing with rage. Nathanial managed to duck out of the way, but not fast enough to avoid a solid clip across the temple from a stray fist. He was knocked into the ring of spectators, who jeered and shoved him back towards the fight.

Brand found himself free to deal with his single attacker and let loose the pent-up savagery he'd become famous for. With a pure animal snarl of rage, he sunk his teeth deep into Corey's fleshy forearm. There came a unanimous gasp from the awed onlookers, and an impossibly pitched hysterical shriek from Corey. The shriek drew out into an inhuman keening as Brand ground the bloody wound between his teeth and jerked his head back, tearing a substantial piece of meat from the arm. Grinning through a savage mask of blood, he spit the boy's flesh sideways onto the ground and lunged for another attack.

At once the sound of a slamming farmhouse door dispelled the high-pitched hypnotic atmosphere of the fight, and the ring of observers faded undetected back to their assigned chores. Nathanial ran to pull Brand away from the fight.

"Farmer Alderson's coming! C'mon Brand you know you'll catch it if he sees you!"

Brand struggled to control his surging adrenaline and paused to leer at his sobbing victim.

"You were bit by a dog Corey, get it?" he snarled, "Else I swear I'll rip your throat out while you're sleeping….."

He let Nathanial pull him back without breaking eye contact with the terrified bully. It was only when Corey sobbed and turned his face away that Brand wheeled and ran to the nearest cattle shed, half pushing Nathanial ahead of him. They both collapsed, panting on the fresh straw of the shed and listened for the click of the farmer's bolted boots on the cobblestones in the yard.

"Take a look Nate," hissed Brand.

With a gulp of apprehension Nathanial crawled carefully to peek around the corner of the stall. The sun had dipped behind the oat fields on the horizon, leaving most of the yard in shifting shadows. Nathanial closed his eyes for a moment to adjust them to the dimming light and then surveyed the scene in the yard. Once his eyes adjusted, the scene was as clear as if it were high noon. Voices carried over the light evening breeze across the farm and he held his breath to let his acute hearing pick up what it could. He kept low to the ground until he'd seen enough and then crawled back to the stall to report.

"Farmer Alderson's dragging Corey into the house; he's still bleeding like a stuck pig and crying like a baby. I don't see any sign of Pietro or Geil. Corey's getting a right ear-chew from the farmer."

Brand nodded absently, dabbing at a cut on his leg through the tear in the heavy cotton. "Any sign he'll point us out?"

"Nah, as scared as he is of you right now he'll remember what you said."

Brand nodded in satisfaction and gave into the weariness that took him after a big fight. He turned his head slightly to one side to spit blood, then sat back against a straw bale and closed his eyes. Nathanial waited patiently for him to rest, trying not to fidget. After a few minutes Brand stood and went quietly to the artesian well that flowed through the cattle trough. He scooped up a handful of the icy clear water and ran it around his mouth, spitting it back blood-red into the straw. Nathanial tried to look unaffected, but he had to swallow several times to quiet his suddenly lurching guts. Brand's fighting always awakened a sort of empathetic horror inside him for the victims, which he took great pains to suppress.

"You wouldn't really do what you said, would you Brand? I mean tear his throat out."

Brand gave a ghoulish grin, "I dunno Nate me mate; I might get a taste for him."

Nathanial shuddered and felt suddenly like making a sign averting the evil eye. He restrained his hands only by conscious effort. Brand laughed at his reaction and licked his lips theatrically.

"After all, I expected Corey to taste as slimy as he thinks, but he taste like rust, same as you, me and the effing tax collector."

Nathanial cracked something of a nervous smile at a reference to the summer when the farmer had been elected to collect the annual crop taxes from those in the town limits. Alderson was bitten on the leg by a crazy hermit on the very first day, and limped back to town to hand his resignation to the council. That had been Brand's first summer on the orphanage farm, along with a handful of other survivors of the border disputes that raged through their section of the unclaimed territories. From the first, he'd treated Nathanial like a kid brother, and patiently drew the boy from the quiet shell he'd developed over years of isolation. Nathanial began to worship Brand as a hero, and did his best to imitate him.

Five years later Nathanial's hero sat back against the wall of the lean-to cattle stall with a wisp of sweet clover hay between his front teeth, hiding from the farmer. He eyed the rising moon as if daring it to move too quickly and chase him indoors. When it reluctantly crested the eastern hill he sighed and tossed aside the well-chewed stalk.

"Time Nate."

The two dusted themselves off as best they could and snuck towards the farmhouse under the cover of the long evening shadows. Whether by luck or instinct, they made it just as the curfew bell rang both boys and girls in to supper, leaving Corey's friends no opportunity to enact revenge on their way. Brand leapt lightly to the top of the farmhouse doorsteps and gravely tipped his battered leather hat to Nathanial.

"Nice job tonight Nate, taking out Pietro and Geil. You're finally come into your own." He swept off his hat with a brush of his hand and sent it rolling perfectly down one arm, a trick that always fascinated and confounded Nathanial. With a glint of laughter in his eye Brand snagged it by the crown out of mid-air, made a show of dusting it off, then dropped it on Nathanial's head.

"There Nate, something to cover those oddities you call ears."

With a grin he turned and left Nathanial standing on the moonlit step, struggling not to beam. The praise was rare, but the hat! Nathanial knew it had belonged to Brand's father, and what it meant to the older boy. Throughout supper he fidgeted to finish quickly and rush upstairs to the dorm mirror. Once there, he turned from side to side and noted with great relief that the hat did indeed cover his strangely deformed ears, which swept up into long points and served as a constant reminder of his unknown father.

_Maybe, if I wear the hat long enough, people will just forget I'm different. Maybe they'll stop talking about devils and fey when they think I'm out of earshot. Maybe…._

With a sense of all being right in the world, Nathanial drifted off to sleep.

He dreamed without memory. Sitting on the floor with his head on his mother's knee, he listened to her sing in a language he hadn't heard since her death. She taught him to speak it and he worked tirelessly to learn the small portion she knew. He believed, as only a ten year old boy can, that if he learned the words perfectly his father would return and be proud of his effort. He dreamed of the song, winding its eerie melody through the forest where he walked alone with his thoughts. He dreamed of pursuit, a woman with long ears and glittering black eyes slinking through the forest behind him. He dreamed of a man and woman standing over his infant crib, she weeping while he embraced her. Then all dreams and memories fled and left him to sleep peacefully through the night.

Brand and the local Tavernmaster eyed each other appraisingly over the breakfast table the next morning, and neither appeared particularly impressed. Nathanial hovered close by under the pretext of serving the farmer's breakfast, hoping to be allowed to stay. Brand was finally sixteen and eligible for a position as apprentice to one of the local businessmen. Nathanial's eyes were drawn nervously to the man's scarred and grizzled face, his dirty tunic, and his thick, perpetually swollen knuckles. As he poured tea for the farmer, he was fascinated by the way the Tavernmaster's fingers flexed, as if they kept trying to assume their natural form of a fist, but were checked by the lack of opportunity to hit anything in these plain but civilized surroundings. Nathanial nearly jumped out of his skin when those calloused fingers were suddenly snapped under his nose.

"Here now boy, are you simple? What are you staring at?"

Nathanial barely managed not to yelp. After a brief second to come back to the situation he shrugged and assumed a position identical to Brand's, down to the degree of slouch and the cool expression. Brand grinned and winked at him from behind the man's back, causing Nathanial to struggle to keep a straight face.

The farmer looked at them and his eyes quirked as if he too, were suppressing a smile.

"Run along now Nathanial lad," he said in a soft voice, "I must discuss business with the good Tavernmaster."

Nathanial left reluctantly, but when the heavy door swung shut behind him he immediately turned and pressed one ear against the wood. The rough, booming voice of the Tavernmaster carried easily through the door, but the farmer's murmur was more difficult to pick up.

The Tavernmaster watched Nathanial leave with a wary eye, then snorted and raised one eyebrow to the farmer. "I don't know how you can stand to have that demon freak around. He gives me the jitters!"

Brand made a movement to stand with a murderous glint in his eye. The farmer gave him a quelling look and sipped at his cooling tea.

"Nathanial's a perfectly ordinary boy from everything I've seen," Alderson told the Tavernmaster in a reproving voice, "Fifteen year old gossip and a birth defect are not enough to condemn a good child."

The man grunted, but it wasn't clear if in agreement or disbelief. Brand subsided, but still shot resentful, disdaining looks at his new employer. He affected total indifference to the negotiations for his terms and wages, trusting the farmer to strike a fair deal. He did feel a twinge of guilt towards the farmer, since Brand had no intention of serving out his apprenticeship. He'd made plans to leave this town the moment he arrived five years before, and the only thing that had changed was that he no longer planned to travel alone.

The men negotiated back and forth for what seemed a long time before a deal was finally struck. Nathanial caught the heavy tread in time to get away from the door before it flew open with a crash and Brand's new master stomped out onto the porch. Brand let the man get somewhat ahead and pulled Nathanial aside.

"Stay out of trouble Nate, and don't let the others kick you around while I'm gone."

There was a summoning bellow from outside when the Tavernmaster realized his new apprentice was not on his heels; Brand looked annoyed and flicked a bare glance in that direction.

"Nathanial I want you to promise me that if too many boys come after you that you'll run. You can't take on more than one by yourself right now and they know it."

Nathanial looked hurt and resentful.

"I hate running! C'mon Brand I think I can take them now, I've been practicing really hard!"

"You run like hell if more than one comes after you unless I'm there to help, got it?"

Brand waited for his resigned nod and bolted out the door to another shout from the Tavernmaster. Nathanial ran out onto the steps after him and watched the two figures recede in the distance. He continued to watch until the farmer had to track him down to help with that day's chores.

The dark cloud of loss and resentment followed Nathanial all day through his tasks. With the group short Brand, the farmer was forced to work out in the hayfield with the boys to get the harvest in before the threatening rain. Nathanial made an honest effort to steer clear of Pietro and his gang while he worked, but they were too aware that his only real protection against them was on the other side of town, polishing glasses behind a mahogany bar. They spent the day indulging in little "accidental" encounters: stepping on his toes, knocking over his stacks of hay, and the occasional sharp jab in the kidneys when the farmer's back was turned. His only solace was that they were stopped short of real violence by the farmer's presence.

The boys loaded up the last of the summer hay into the wagon and the farmer looked around, "Who's been driving, other than Brand?"

Nathanial stayed quiet, waiting for the usual clamor of the boys to drive the wagon and avoid the walk up the fields. Strangely, today there was no clamor, not even a single volunteer. It took Nathanial a moment to notice, but he eventually saw that Pietro's gang had spread themselves out between the other boys, who shot them terrified looks out of the corner of their eyes. The farmer raised an eyebrow and Pietro stepped forward and cleared his throat.

"Sir, none of us are really good at it, but Brand's been teaching his bab...I mean Nate to drive it and he's the best among us."

Nathanial's world suddenly slowed down, while his thoughts sped up. Pietro turned and winked at him with a smile that chilled the blood. He went perfectly still and replied out of instinct, sure of some sort of trap.

"Actually sir, Pietro's being modest, he's much better than I am."

Nathanial's voice was flat, and he still couldn't drag his eyes away from Pietro, in hopes of some clue to avoid whatever danger he was in.

Pietro obviously relished his triumph. He could see Nathanial was scared, but he also seemed anxious to get on without raising the farmer's suspicions. He delivered the final blow before the man could get too impatient.

"Nonsense Nathanial, you lack faith in yourself, up you go! I'll see you back at the shed."

For a moment, those in on the scheme thought he was going to bow, like a theater troupe after a performance. But he settled for a quick turn on his heels and walked away, whistling.

The farmer stepped to Nathanial's side and he broke into a cold sweat as he realized that the man was waiting to help him into the driver's seat. He stared after Pietro for a moment before taking a firm hold on his nerves. It had to be a bluff; Pietro wouldn't dare do anything with Farmer Alderson so close.

_"He's just trying to scare you," _he told himself, _"and if you get scared, he wins."_

At that thought he took a deep breath and threw his shoulders back. The gauntlet was down now; there was nothing to do but stand up to it.

The farmer boosted him into the wagon seat and handed him the thick leather reins. The horses knew which way to go and needed little guidance, but they were eager for their warm stalls and pulled impatiently at the bit. Nathanial managed to keep them at a walk but soon outdistanced the farmer and other boys. He continued fighting with the reins to slow their pace, but after years of young drivers putting calluses on the horses' mouths there was little effect. As the wagon crested the hill down to the stableyard he suddenly realized he was out of eyesight from anyone else on the farm. Instinct made him turn as Pietro jumped out from behind a bush wielding his infamous slingshot. The first shot sent a stabbing, maddening pain up Nathanial's leg. He looked down almost uncomprehendingly at the short tack nail embedded in his thigh. When the lead horse snorted and jumped in astonishment he realized that he wasn't the only target and a chill crept up his spine. He grabbed the reins tightly and urged the horses faster in hopes of outrunning Pietro, but more nails found their mark and the horses panicked.

They stampeded, kicking the wagon and each other in their rush. Nathanial wrapped the reins around the bench support for leverage and hauled with all his strength, but the horses were too crazed. The wagon rattled over the rough ground, spreading the hay crop behind it in flight. He hung on grimly, but the horses were forced to swerve around a feed shed in their path. Nathanial felt the world tilt at a crazy angle and there was a jolting, sickening crunch as the front wheel splintered. The wagon flipped in what seemed like a slow, endless arc, carrying the horses to the ground with it. Nathanial found himself trapped between the flailing rear hooves and the wagon, and was beaten unconscious long before help could arrive.


	2. Fire in the Mind

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK I**

**Chapter 2: Fire in the Mind**

_Tonight, like every night, she went down to the crossroads and sat on a fallen log with her baby on her knee. She waited. He'd always come by twilight in the past, sneaking through town unnoticed by the supping residents. So she sat and waited for him to come again. But the hours she waited each night were not entirely wasted, as she sang to her growing child in the haunting language of his father's people. As he grew older, the nightly visits to the crossroads were spent in teaching the boy how to speak the language himself, and answering questions about his father. She taught him all she knew as she waited, and he was raised in a kind of desperate expectation of his return. But even though they waited there every night for ten long years, she never lost hope that her lover would return to see his son._

Nathanial couldn't be blamed for the first fire on Alderson's orphan farm, as he was asleep under a nurse's guard the entire night. But later people would talk in hushed, nervous voices. Everyone knew that Pietro was responsible for what had happened to Nathanial, so when the reaper claimed him in the blazing cattle shed that same evening some spoke of the Gods' justice, or retribution. But when each member of his gang met or narrowly avoided the same fate over the course of the next two days, folks remembered the charms to avert the evil eye, and revived old rumors of Nathanial's father in late-night whispers. Mayana's lover had never been seen, other than the occasional glimpse of a cloaked and hooded figure riding through town near twilight. Some thought Nathanial's mother had been seduced by the fey to produce a child, but as the fires continued the talk began to mention more demons than fey.

Nathanial woke on the fourth day after Pietro's death. He was first aware of a faltering, hesitant voice stumbling over the words to a familiar story. His eyes slowly cleared and he saw Brand sitting nearby, painstakingly reading aloud to him. Nathanial tried to speak but his voice came out a bare whisper and his throat was a raw, scratchy fire. Brand turned to look at him in surprise and Nathanial nearly cried out when a vivid vision of a bottle swinging at Brand's frightened face flashed in front of his eyes. It was gone almost before it registered in his mind, and when he shook his head to clear it a stabbing bolt of pain tore through his temple and awoke every outraged nerve in his battered body. He groaned and tried to keep his breathing even until the pain subsided to a steady throb.

Brand looked concerned and put down his book. Nathanial noticed bruises on his face and arms in varying stages of yellow and purple and opened his mouth to ask, but his throat was too dry to produce more than an unintelligible hissing. Brand eased Nathanial back onto the pillows and poured him a cup of the lukewarm water left by the nurse.

"Drink slowly kid, or you'll toss it right back at me."

Nathanial snatched at it eagerly and tried dutifully to pace himself despite his fierce thirst. He was glad he'd obeyed when his stomach protested even that small intrusion. He gestured to Brand's face, and had to cough before he could bring his voice above a whisper.

"If Pietro gave you those you're losing your touch."

Somehow at the back of his mind, was an odd certainty that Pietro had nothing at all to do with the bruises. Confused, he tried to think through the pounding headache, but it only seemed to intensify.

"Pietro didn't," said Brand in an eerie echo of his thoughts, "he didn't get a chance. He dropped a cigarette in the cattle shed a few nights ago, and died in the fire. Leastways that's what folks is saying."

Nathanial felt a surge of relief, followed by a brief flare of guilt for the relief. Who was he to be glad for someone's death? Before he could say anything, he was struck by an almost foreign sense of triumph and the lingering smell of woodsmoke, which faded too quickly to have been real. He glanced over at Brand, who avoided his gaze somewhat guiltily. The older boy told himself he wasn't lying to Nate; after all, some folks _were_ still saying the death was accidental. Nathanial seized upon a terrible thought.

"_Tell me you didn't kill him", _he prayed silently.

Brand jumped and looked around the room, and then back at Nathanial, whose lips hadn't moved.

"Did you say something?"

Nathanial shook his head and tried loyally to suppress any suspicion of Brand as a cold-blooded killer. He was violent when attacked, but in many years Nathanial had never seen him hurt someone without direct provocation. Some worry agitated at the back of his mind, asking what Brand had heard him say, but Nathanial was too tired to fully acknowledge the question. When Brand picked the book back up and began to read carefully aloud again, Nathanial found himself drifting off to sleep.

He dreamed disjointed, vivid dreams of his mother's house burning, her body trapped inside, lifeless on the bed. In his dream a woman in a dark hood stood by the fire, a pleased smile on her lips, and malice in her eyes. As in life, his father was nowhere to be seen. Nathanial wondered if he'd even recognize the man anymore.

The burning house became a burning shed, with Pietro trapped beneath a fallen timber, screaming for help.

The burning shed became a burning tavern, with himself in the background, sobbing in rage. He bolted awake with sweat beading on his forehead. The images faded quickly and within minutes he'd forgotten every detail of the dream. He was left only with a vague uneasiness turning restlessly in the back of his mind. He settled back down on the coverlet and after only a few moments, managed to drift back into sleep.

He wasn't allowed out of bed for at least a week, and for the first few days his vision wavered enough to keep him from reading. The farmer had sent a replacement worker to the Tavernmaster while Brand sat up with Nathanial, playing war games with colored pebbles and pieces of cork for armies. On an afternoon when both were bored and restless from their confinement, Brand began discussing his plans to leave Franklin.

"Just you and me Nate, on the open road. We'll shake the dust of this town from our boots."

Nathanial looked serious, and somewhat skeptical. "I don't see how. We were born here, well I was anyway, and no one ever leaves."

"But think on it Nate me mate... We could go somewhere where no one knows anything about us. No more rumors about your dad! You can wear your hat and no one will know you're different at all! Besides if you don't like the road, you can always come back here."

The idea caught hold of Nathanial, who realized by the look on Brand's face that if he didn't go along, he'd probably be left behind; a bleak prospect indeed with no friends or family. Brand recognized Nathanial's reluctant interest and began going into details such as equipment they would need and what direction they would follow. He groused that they wouldn't be able to leave until he could save up the money, which could take years. Nathanial fidgeted a moment, and a long-suppressed memory floated to the surface.

"I have some money. Well I can get it anyway."

Brand looked at him for a moment and then smiled paternally, "we're going to need more than a few copper to eat on Nate."

"It's not copper, it's gold and silver, my mother's. As far as I know no one's ever cleared the remains of the house to find it."

Brand actually looked impressed and Nathanial grinned shyly at his expression.

"Are you sure YOU can find it Nate? I mean, it was a long time ago."

The boy nodded emphatically. "I know right where it is, we just need to dig. There's probably a couple hundred gold coins left in there, plus some silver. I was saving it for when I have to leave the farm."

Brand's entire faced glowed with impatient hope.

"Well then, that makes quite a difference! A matter of days instead of years. I only want to pick up my end-of-month pay next week and then we can go!"

He rubbed his hands together with glee and clapped Nathanial on the back.

"Nate, this is the start of a grand adventure, just you wait!"

The money never made a difference to Brand. Nathanial knew that his friend was dead before he even hit the floor of the Tavern, his skull shattered by the heavy glass bottle in the Tavernkeeper's hand. Something had been warning him all day, as a cloud seemed to hang over everything he did, and throughout the day he would find himself shaking with anxiety, something he'd never experienced before. His mood made him edgy and temperamental, and it was Corey's own bad luck that made him choose that day to torment him.

With their ringleader gone, Pietro's old gang lost some of their bite, but they were still willing to band together for the occasional looting or beating. They'd also discovered Nathanial would run away if enough of them worked together. When their new leader, Corey, decided to make a game out of seeing just how few it took to make him run from fights the others took the game up enthusiastically, and Nathanial was often out of breath from his escapes. But when Corey came at him with two cronies that daya slow cold foreign rage erupted in Nathanial and he balked. Corey's cronies, put out by their prey's unfair refusal to run, held Nathanial between them while Corey planted careful punches designed to hurt badly but leave no marks to show the farmer. Nathanial was crying with frustration, pain and anger but he didn't have the strength to get away from the older boys and he refused to back down. He was half aware of a steady stream of curses coming from his mouth as he fought to free himself. When Corey managed to get one step too far in the right direction Nathanial saw his opening and kicked him hard in the face, breaking his nose.

Cory's expression was ridiculously surprised around the bloody hand trying to staunch the flow from his nose. One of his friends made the mistake of snickering and Corey flushed dark with anger in the uneasy silence that followed. He spat blood onto the ground and gave a horrible grin as he pulled a knife from his boot.

Nathanial's stomach dropped as he suddenly realized his mistake. Corey was known for a violent temper, and both pets and people around the town bore horrific scars from the knife he now pointed at Nathanial. A strange tension began growing in the boy's mind, which set off warnings elsewhere but his fear and frustration were too consuming for it to register. Corey moved closer, and for lack of a better weapon Nathanial spat in his face. The silence in the small circle around them was almost tangible as Corey slowly wiped the spittle off his cheek. This time there was no smile on his face when he stepped in with the knife, but the moment the blade touched Nathanial's skin he felt the tension in his mind snap and his whole world went white. He felt the two boys release their grip on his arms and he blinked his eyes to clear them. He saw Corey lying on the ground, eyes wide open, and the others running and shouting towards the farmyard. They were screaming, Nathanial noted, that the freak had called down lightning to strike Corey dead.

In that moment of dazed confusion, an image struck him with such vivid realism that it drove him to his hands and knees, screaming. Brand was throwing up his arms in defense, but it was too late. Nathanial saw the bottle strike him, saw the side of his head cave in like an overripe pumpkin, and saw the lifeless body fall to the floor. It was almost a physical blow to Nathanial, and at the sight of Brand's blank stare he vomited onto the ground in front of him until his entire body hurt from heaving. He stumbled to his feet and ran to his room in a daze, where he huddled in a corner for hours. When he had cried all the tears left in him, Nathanial's anguish became anger, then hatred. He brought up the image of the Tavernmaster in his mind as he'd been in the vision and then watched in grim satisfaction as the bottles behind the man exploded one by one into imaginary flames. The fire raced across the dry wood floor and up the walls, with the Tavernmaster trapped screaming in the inferno. The bar burned around him in a funeral pyre for the last family he had known. When he'd vented a good deal of his anger, Nathanial started to back off from his imaginary fire, but found it had taken on a life of its own. Instead of dissipating the image grew more vivid, until he could feel the blistering heat and began to cough from the strength of the smoke. The screams of the Tavernmaster sounded more and more real, and while his hatred didn't diminish, the sound was so horrific that he had to clap his hands to his ears in an effort to muffle them. His gut wrenched in sympathy as he was caught up by the vision and watched the Tavernmaster slowly roast to death. Only when the man finally dropped silently to the floor completely obscured by flames was Nathanial able to banish the entire image. He crawled to his bunk and fell across the covers, slipping into an exhausted sleep.

It was well before dawn when Nathanial woke to a vigorous shaking. He looked up into the farmer's frantic face, and tried to put together the words Alderson spoke through his own sleepy confusion.

"Nathanial, wake up son, you must wake up!"

He rolled over, confused at the urgency in the farmer's voice. The man was looking at him in concern, sorrow, and not a little uneasiness.

"Nathanial, you have to get up; you have to leave before the townsfolk get here!"

"What happened, what's going on?" Nathanial wondered briefly if he was still dreaming, but when the cold pre-dawn air made him shiver, he started to fear he wasn't.

"Corey's dead from a lightning strike son, and the inn burned down tonight with the Tavernmaster in it. The town is scared. They think you had something to do with both, and in the mood they're in I don't trust them to remember you're just a boy."

The farmer was throwing Nathanial's things into a backpack, tossing a set of clothes at him impatiently. The boy was sick and horrified, remembering his imaginings the night before and how they'd taken him over.

"Get dressed! You have to be long gone before they get here!"

Nathanial pulled on the clothes and fumbled with the laces on his boots. He shrugged on the backpack and dazedly accepted a few silver pieces from the farmer. Alderson looked at the meager amount of money and sighed with real regret.

"It's all I can spare Nathanial; you'll have to find a way to work for your living."

The farmer took him downstairs and sent him quietly out the back door. He whispered a last word of advice, "stay off the main roads until you're well away boy, and don't stop."

Bewildered, Nathanial turned back to him.

"But sir, when can I come back?"

The farmer looked around nervously.

"Never son, never. Like it or not, you're finished with this town. Don't even write to let me know how you're getting along; looking back's an invitation for trouble to follow you. If anyone asks I'll say you're missing; with luck they'll think you died in the fire and won't look for you elsewhere! Good luck boy, and may the Gods watch over you!"

The farmer firmly closed and locked the door leaving Nathanial standing outside, watching his breath steam on the night air. Reluctantly he turned and started off across the hedgerow, still wondering whether he was dreaming. He was on the other side of a stone wall from the road and considering how long to follow it when he heard angry voices and saw the orange glow of torches bobbing along the other side. He ducked, breathing hard, and pressed himself against the wall as they passed. He heard them muttering to themselves, but only caught bits and pieces.

"He's a Demon freak, the Devil's own spawn…"

"…murderer, kill us all in our beds…"

"…put the torch to HIM! Only way to kill his kind! Let the devil scream for mercy…"

"…a tree makes as good a gallows as one built I say!"

It was with some shock that Nathanial realized they were talking about him. These were people he'd never hurt, some he'd never met. He bit his lip until he drew blood in the effort to remain silent and unnoticed until they'd passed well by. Once they'd turned down a far corner he cautiously unfolded his shaking limbs and started off again. After a short while in the eerie pre-dawn silence he broke into a trot, then a wild sprint as fear of pursuit overtook him. He rushed to the site of the burned out cabin he'd been born in, paced out the distance in the rubble, and started to dig, looking constantly back over his shoulder in a cold sweat. He came to the metal box he remembered from childhood, and pulled it out to find his mother's gold and silver coins undisturbed. With trembling fingers he distributed the coins around his belongings and cut through the woods in a vague easterly direction. He drove himself to get as far away from the town as possible, always looking and listening for pursuit. When he could go no further he dropped from exhaustion and slept like the dead.


	3. Fire on the Run

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 3: Fire on the Run**

_The ten year old boy held his mother's hand and tried not to notice how thin and fragile it seemed. She had grown steadily ill for the last few weeks, but still managed somehow to make it to the waiting place at the crossroads each evening. It was only that morning that she had worsened and taken to her bed. He did his best to cajole her into drinking a weak broth when she was calm, but the bouts of rambling delirium had frightened him away from her for hours at a time. She was lucid now, and grasped the boy's hand with anxious eyes looking up to his. _

_"What time is it son?"_

_The boy looked out the window and reported dutifully, "Evening, Mother, but please try to drink some tea."_

_There was a brief struggle where she attempted to rise from her bed, but exhaustion defeated her and she collapsed back onto the sweat-soaked mattress. _

_"Son?__ You must go to the waiting place yourself today. Mother's too sick."_

_Wary, the boy studied his mother. There was something not right about leaving her alone, but he couldn't deny her anything she asked. When she saw his expression she laughed in a hollow, rasping ghost of her old laugh. _

_"Don't worry son, he'll come. Now, when I need him the most he'll come, and he'll make me well again. He promised he'd come back, and he'd never break his word."_

_She lay back with a peaceful smile, and the boy reluctantly slipped out the door and down the path, hoping with every step that she'd call him back to her side. He sat at the waiting place, an island of grass where the two roads met, with a rough bench to sit and pass the time. He lay on the grass in the summer evening heat, and soon drifted from a light doze into sleep._

_When he awoke it was full dark, and struck with fear that he might have missed his father's arrival he ran back towards their house. He didn't notice the glow above the trees, but he did smell smoke and redoubled his speed. When he arrived, he found a confused mass milling around in the light of the fire wrapped around his home. The townsfolk stood around with buckets and grim expressions, which turned to shock when he was spotted. The boy shouted for his mother and tried to get to the cabin, but strange hands restrained him, strange voices told him she was dead. He watched the house burn, and when the flaming roof collapsed he fell to the ground in a dead faint, gratefully oblivious._

Nathanial awoke shivering sometime during the night and managed to stay aware long enough to fumble through his backpack for his bedroll and a blanket. When he came across a large stash of food tucked into the bottom of the pack he took a moment to fervently thank and bless the farmer in his thoughts. The growling in his stomach pulled temporary rank on the rest of his body's demand for more sleep. Nathanial sat and chewed methodically and, for the first time since he'd begun walking that evening, he contemplated where to go. He shot a glance up to the stars visible from where he sat, and brightened considerably.

_"The Rabbit Rises!"_ He thought to himself, and tried to remember the star lore his mother had lived her life by. The rabbit was good luck, especially for travels and new ventures. He'd never held much faith in Gods, but Mayana had raised him to believe in fate and he'd never quite shaken that. Somehow in his panicked flight he'd followed the path Brand had originally discussed taking, and it was comforting to believe he was guided.

He turned the rest of what they'd discussed over in his head, but the sheer scale of it all was daunting. He shivered in the cold dampness of predawn, and felt as if the lonely darkness was pressing in around him. What had seemed a grand adventure with Brand suddenly seemed dangerous, hopeless, or even impossible for one young boy who looked even younger. He fell asleep in a black mood, waking at every sound for fear of pursuit.

He awoke from an exhausted doze to find sunlight streaming through the canopy of the woods. He looked around him at the strange dancing patterns the dust motes made in the beams of light, and felt the first stirring of wonder when he realized he was further from the farm than he'd ever been in his remembered lifetime. The distance from the familiar ground around Franklin made even the common species of trees seem strange and exotic. He breakfasted lightly atop a fallen birch log, already missing the hot meals at the farm. He groaned quietly as he rose on his aching feet and struggled into the straps of his backpack.

_"No wonder you're footsore," _he chided himself, _"When you decide to sprint halfway across the territory with only imaginary ghosts in pursuit!"_

Berating himself like a disgruntled sergeant, he pushed himself onward through the day's heat. By nightfall he was exhausted beyond any hope of gathering wood for a fire, but he at least managed to get into his bedroll and blankets before falling asleep. He dreamed restlessly of cold fire, burning ice, and strange faces he couldn't quite see to identify. He woke just after dawn with a chill in his chest and temples, and paced for a while to warm his blood. He set off again, and came close to enjoying the stretch of exercise on the muscles knotted up from the early morning cold. By mid-afternoon he reached the outskirts of a town, and weighed his yearnings for a soft bed and hot bath against the fear that he was still too close to Franklin. He reluctantly circled the outer edge of the town, promising his sore feet with every step that they'd soon be far enough away to stop for a while. He veered somewhat southwards, following an overgrown cart road nearly hidden between thick blueberry bushes. The road twisted leisurely around patches of swampland, and Nathanial reached the next village without encountering more than the occasional rabbit or pheasant. He convinced himself against his gut fear that it was safe to stop, even if only for a few hours.

He opened the door of the first shop tentatively, and almost jumped out of his skin when a small silver bell sounded just behind his left ear. He breathed slowly to calm his heart, knowing his fear was irrational, yet still expecting everyone he came in contact with to condemn him as a murdering freak.

"Can I help you boy?"

Nathanial whirled around and stumbled over a meticulously arranged greatsword and suit of platemail. The blood drained from his face as the display went crashing to one side in a spectacular avalanche of metal. The noise seemed to go on forever, with bits and pieces of the armor and its supports scattering clear across the shop's floor with sharp metallic pings. Nathanial squeezed his eyes shut in humiliation and waited for it to end. When absolute quiet once again ruled the small shop, he timidly cracked one eye to gauge the reaction of the shopkeeper and prepared himself to bolt out the door behind him. To his relief, the man was fighting a smile, the corners of his mouth twitching in suppressed laughter.

"I..er…need a few things….umm…let me help you pick this up first…" Nathanial stuttered, gesturing to the metal scattered across the shop.

The man shook his head and chuckled.

"Don't worry about it son, I was going to change that display today anyhow. What sort of things are you looking for?"

"Ummm...armor… and a sword I think."

The man raised one eyebrow in amusement and looked Nathanial over.

"Do you even know how to use a sword, boy?"

Nathanial blushed and shook his head uncertainly.

"I can learn as I go. But I've read a lot of books on adventuring, and everyone in the books has armor and a sword to make their living on."

The man suppressed a paternal grin. Something about the defiant little figure in front of him called out to be helped, but while he didn't have time to teach the boy to swing a sword, there were other weapons.

"A sword's overrated and complicated son," he said kindly, "I've known my share of adventurers and I know what they really use."

He put a metal rod with a spiked round head on the counter. Nathanial picked it up and tested the weight and swing. It felt good in his hand and easy to direct with enough heft to do some damage.

"What's it called?" He asked.

"Those who make it call it a morningstar. Those who use it sometimes call it a B.F.F., a big fu…"

He coughed and stopped for barely half a second. When he continued, Nathanial could tell he had revised what he was about to say.

"that is… a big _friendly_ flyswatter."

Nathanial stuck it in its holster and drew it a few times until he got the knack. It didn't seem to require much finesse to swing so he strapped it confidently onto his belt, then looked at the armor that appeared on the counter. It was made from good quality leather dyed a rich dark brown. Gleaming metal rivets were driven through it, and to Nathanial's small-town eyes it was dashing and impressive. The shopkeeper rounded the selection out with a dagger, then treated him to a long lecture on caring for the armor and weapons. Nathanial was grateful to the man for never asking why a child would need such supplies, although it was clearly near the front of his mind. He simply accepted the gold handed to him with grave thanks, and bid Nathanial good luck in whatever he was planning to do. As Nathanial continued to march down the open road the shopkeeper stood in the open doorway, examining the odd foreign symbols on the coins and watching curiously after the child now outfitted for war.

After several weeks of travel without stopping in any town for more than a few hours at a time, Nathanial felt he'd traveled far enough from Franklin to be safe. He began to look for a place he could start the new life he'd promised himself. When he came across a bustling market town full of people, color and anonymity, he applied for work at a vendor stall where the man selling fresh fruits and vegetables seemed rushed off his feet in the attempt to take and fill orders. The vendor gave the young boy a once-over appraisal, and a few minutes in the stall as a test. As Nathanial got into the swing of hawking the vendor's eyes began to gleam at the gold mine in front of him. The urchin boy in the too-big hat caught the eye of sympathetic women, whose maternal instinct encouraged them to pay premium prices. But the boy also seemed to have an uncanny memory and sharp command of numbers that earned dubious respect from the shopping men. The vendor rubbed his hands together with glee as Nathanial brought in more than enough extra that afternoon to pay his wages, plus more profit than the vendor had seen in many days. In less than a week, the vendor was able to leave Nathanial by himself and set up a second stall for dry goods.

Nathanial was in mid-haggle on a bright afternoon nearly two years later when he happened to glance over the customer's shoulder and lock eyes with a girl from Franklin. She was hanging on the arm of a local merchant and picking listlessly through another produce stall when she looked up and spotted him. Nathanial broke into a cold sweat and ducked his head. His customer looked at him oddly, then grinned.

"Here now boy, not feeling well, or is it that you know I'll drive you a hard bargain on that bushel? Now I think five copper's a perfectly fair price, considering the quality…if tha know what I mean…"

"Fine, five copper, fine."

Nathanial tried to keep the customer between himself and the girl, wishing he could just give the man the apples and hide beneath the counter. The man looked shocked and angry at this deviation from the rules of haggling.

"Here now, what are you playing at, boy?" You know as well as I do that they're worth more than five copper! You're not trying to pass wormy stuff on me are ye?"

"No sir, I wouldn't ever."

"Then why would you sell it to me for copper when we both know it's worth at least two silvers? What kind of trick are you pulling on me?"

Nathanial saw the girl stare at him, puzzled, as if trying to place him in his memory. He knew it wouldn't be long until she did so; after all he hadn't grown that much since leaving the farm. He barely glanced at the man in front of him, hoping to hurry him away before any spark of recognition lit the girl's eyes.

"Fine, fine, two silver then, sold!" He muttered to his customer.

The customer nodded hesitantly, not sure if the deal had been struck. He reached tentatively into his belt pouch and picked out the silver coins of the region by feel. He had the unsettling feeling that he'd been somehow tricked into paying more than he should have, but also that he'd come very close to looking the fool. He accepted the apples dubiously, and as he slouched away from the market he made a firm decision not to tell his wife. He didn't notice Nathanial duck below the cover of the stall and sit with his back to the frame, breathing heavily.

"Last wages, last wages for what?" demanded his boss when Nathanial asked that evening.

"I'm moving on; our original agreement was for a week's wages as severance if I lasted more than a year."

His boss looked at him with quivering eyes. Nathanial had seen that look before, and tried to ease himself out of arm's reach.

"Now Nate me'boy…Aren't you being a bit hasty? There's no need to move on yet, not when I'm ready to make you a full partner..."

Nathanial met the table in the small of his back and realized he couldn't get far enough away without being obvious. He tensed his muscles in anticipation. He caught the reek of whisky about the man, promising violence despite his wheedling tone of voice.

"Sorry Sir, I need to get out of town fairly quickly, but I plan on taking along what's owed me. Now if we can just settle up, I'm sure you can hire someone else to run the stall."

His boss glowered and whipped a hand out quicker than the eye could track it. While Nathanial tried his best to evade it, the hand caught him around the neck and began to squeeze.

"You know damn well boy, that without you running the stall I'll lose money," he growled as Nathanial began to wheeze and pull at the hands constricting his breath. "Now you can be a good boy and stay, or I can chain you by the leg and you can stay. Don't think I can't have slave ownership papers drawn up for you!"

Nathanial felt his pulse throbbing in his temples as the air to his lungs was reduced to a trickle. He clawed frantically at the hand around his throat but it might have been carved from solid wood for all the effect he had. His boss dragged him across the kitchen and threw him against the back wall of the pantry with enough force to bring small boxes and jars tumbling down on top of him. He lay dazed for a moment coughing and choking for air, with black spots dancing in front of his eyes. When his vision began to clear he looked up in time to see the door slam and the key pulled from the lock.

His boss continued to shout and rant at him through the door for what seemed like hours, but Nathanial didn't bother to respond. The close air in the closet and the aftereffects of adrenaline were conspiring to send him into a doze, and he drifted off despite his efforts to fight it.

He jerked suddenly awake some time later to silence. He held his breath for several heartbeats, listening for any sign the room outside was still occupied. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and he searched as quietly as possible for some means of opening the door. After several minutes trying to fashion lock picks from the spare kitchen cutlery he sat back with a sigh of frustration and surveyed the room again. Sweat was beading on his forehead from the airless heat, and a claustrophobic panic began to build inside his chest. His eyes kept being drawn back to the edge of the door, and he almost laughed with hysterical relief when he realized what he was looking at. He'd always thought it was inconvenient to have the pantry door open inwards when stocking it, but now he blessed the incompetent builder in his thoughts and pulled the pins from the easily accessible hinges. He carefully slid the door to one side of the frame and slipped out into the semi-dark kitchen. He was still wrapped up in self congratulation for the trick when a snort behind him made him bite his tongue in an effort not to scream. His boss was sitting at the table, and only after second glance did Nathanial realize the man was asleep...or at the least, unconscious. There was an empty bottle on the table and another rolling on the floor, sending a clear, noxious puddle across the wood planking. Nathanial controlled his urge to simply bolt out the door without a copper to his name, and nervously approached his boss. The next snore froze him in his tracks, heart pounding, until he was sure the man wasn't awakening. He carefully slid the lockbox with the day's earnings from beneath the heavy hand pinning it to the table and removed exactly the severance wages agreed upon when he was first hired. He looked longingly at the remainder, but gave a heavy sigh and put it back in the box, along with his set of keys to the shuttered vendor stall. He retrieved his belongings and crept out the back door to travel by cover of night.

Days stacked into weeks, then months of nameless jobs in nameless towns, always moving. It was early morning of a late spring day, with the fog still thick around his ankles when he looked up from the path to see a horse trotting leisurely towards him. It was a gleaming white mare, bare of saddle or bridle and for a single irrational moment Nathanial was certain it was a fey creature wading through the trails of mist. The illusion was broken and he let out his breath in a rush when he noticed a lead rope still trailing from its neck. He took a piece of bread from his rations and held it out to the mare, which snorted and stopped in its tracks. He made soothing noises as it took tentative steps towards him, until he was finally able to grab the broken end of the rope. After a quick tug of protest, the horse relented to captivity and walked quietly by his side, back in the direction it came.

He reached the outskirts of a fairly large town before long, and farmers looked up from their chores to eye him curiously as he passed. Before long, the farms turned into estates with long gated paths paved with cut stone, and elegant houses set dramatically on hilltops. A shining black carriage nearly ran him off the road with a flurry of curses from the driver's seat and Nathanial made a rude gesture to its receding back. It was a couple of miles before he reached the town itself, and the horse-trader was easy to recognize by the herds milling about the paddocks. When he came into the barn with the mare there were feminine shrieks of delight as two young girls came running up and showered kisses on the animal. Nathanial was ignored except to pull the lead rope from his hand, and the mare was ushered into a stall to bear up stoically under a flood of sympathetic petting and the occasional treats appearing from the girls' apron pockets.

"Can I help you son?"

Nathanial started and his hand twitched automatically towards his morningstar. He turned and found a giant of a man in a leather farrier's apron looming over him. The man's eyes moved knowingly from Nathanial's hand to the morningstar and he tightened own grip on the pitchfork he carried. Nathanial took a step back and relaxed, chiding himself for being so easily startled.

"I came across a loose horse on the road, Sir, and I thought you might know who she belonged to?"

The man peered over the top of the stall where the mare stood contentedly chewing a slice of apple, and smiled.

"That's our Molly all right. If she wasn't white as day we'd sell her to the thieves' guild for all the locked gates she's escaped from."

Nathanial knew that his time on the road had worn hard on his respectability, but he felt even more dirty and bedraggled when the farmer raked him over with an appraising eye.

"It was an honest deed to bring that mare back, son. I'll ask you to stay to dinner if you'd like, you look like you could use it."

Nathanial nodded gratefully.

"Thank you sir. Actually I'm looking for work if you know of any around here."

The horse trader thought for a moment and looked around the barn. Nathanial could see bales waiting to be moved to the loft, doors sagging on their hinges, and stalls in dire need of paint. The trader followed his gaze and nodded thoughtfully.

"As a matter of fact, I know of quite a bit. Cedric Duncan's my name, son. Hasn't anyone ever taught you how to care for leather armor?"

Nathanial looked guiltily down at his dusty, neglected armor and nodded his head. The trader laughed and pulled a canister of saddle soap from a nearby shelf.

"Well, boy, we'll start with that, then."

Nathanial leapt gratefully on the offer of meals, tips and a dry, clean stall to sleep in for his work around the farm. He found the horses responded well to his quiet movements, and he earned many tips from the relieved owners who hated holding their own horses for shoeing or veterinary work. But the real reward was living even on the periphery of the Duncan family. Nathanial would sit with Cedric Duncan around the woodstove in the tack room, oiling leathers and listening to the man's stories of his own adventuring days. He would sit spellbound, listening to tales of fierce battle, rich treasure, true love and gruesome death. On Sundays, out from under the watchful eye of Mrs. Duncan, Cedric would show Nathanial how to use his morningstar as it was meant to be used.

The idyll ended just as Nathanial was beginning to harbor hope that it might last. He was cleaning stalls nearly a year after his arrival when a familiar voice called imperiously for Duncan. He peered around the corner and saw one of the lordlings from the summer estates riding up to the barn. The man dismounted neatly and dropped the reins as one accustomed to having a servant there to pick them up again.

"Duncan!" The man shouted, brushing a speck of dust from one pristine white glove.

Nathanial stepped out with a look of polite enquiry, and stopped cold when he caught sight of the horse. She was a fast, agile, sweet-tempered mare that he'd helped to train only a few months before. Now he could hardly count the scars from whip and spurs criss-crossing her skin. A hot rage erupted inside him as he listened to her broken breathing.

"What do you want?" He demanded rudely of the nobleman.

He looked down on Nathanial with some disdain and tapped his riding whip against his boot. Nathanial noticed it had bits of metal woven into the lash, designed to draw blood.

"Fetch Duncan," the man ordered, "he sold me this baggage and now she'll hardly jump a gate."

Nathanial looked at the poor creature behind him who'd obviously been ridden past her endurance too many times.

"You'll never buy another horse from Duncan's."

The nobleman arched an eyebrow and frowned. "I've little time to waste with servants who don't know their place. Fetch Duncan or his wife, I have a hunt meeting in an hour and I need a fresh ride."

Nathanial took a deep breath to tell the man what he thought, and expelled it when he heard a door close quietly behind him. He looked around to see Mrs. Duncan, wiping liniment soaked fingers on the towel near the door. She gazed past them both and gasped.

"What have you done to the poor thing!? I should have you arrested!"

The man looked at her in disbelief.

"You should have _me_ arrested? You're the one who sold me such a shoddy beast, for an outrageous amount of money I might add! Now I demand my money back, or that you provide me a horse of higher quality!"

His face was turning red by the end of his speech, and his fine accent began to slip into something more guttural. Duncan's wife pulled herself up stiffly to her full height and crossed her arms.

"I will not! If I could demand that animal back legally I would, but you will not have another, not from this stable! Now you can go, with or without the horse, and with or without a bucket of horse piss to chase you… you low, cruel disgusting monster!"

The man growled and raised his whip. Nathanial jumped to push Mrs. Duncan out of the way, but he was a heartbeat too slow and the whip's metal tip opened the skin on her cheek from eye to jaw. She shrieked, and Nathanial turned in time to catch the whip across the shoulder blades. He sucked in his breath with a hiss and felt warmth spreading down his back from the wound. He continued to try and shield Mrs. Duncan but fell to his knees when the whip sliced open the small of his back. His every nerve ending went white with pain, and he felt a familiar tension in his mind. He scrambled to his feet and saw the nobleman advancing on Mrs. Duncan with the whip raised. Nathanial shouted at him to stop, and to his amazement, the man's clothing began to smoke. He looked at Nathanial in confused horror as his fine cotton shirt and silk vest caught fire, and he tried frantically to beat out the flames with his immaculate white gloves. He might have burned to death if Duncan hadn't stormed into the barn and smothered the flames with a saddle blanket. Both the injured man and Mrs. Duncan fled in fear, although Nathanial didn't realize at the time that she was fleeing in fear of him, not the nobleman.

"I swear, Cedric, the fire was leaping from the boy's eyes! It wasn't natural and like no magic I've seen! He's dangerous and I won't have him about!"

Nathanial heard the shouts from the house as he limped back to the barn that evening. Against his better judgment he crept closer and peeked over the top of the windowsill.

Duncan paced the room under the frantic eye of his wife, "You would have me just turn him out like we haven't treated him as a son for a year? He was protecting you from that monster!"

"And he could turn on us just as easily! Would you have him fire the barn with the horses in it?"

"I don't believe he would, wife."

"I won't take that chance Cedric, I won't have him about! I won't!"

Nathanial got up slowly from his eavesdropping position and moved quietly towards the barn. He packed up his few belongings and stopped the pat the shoulder of the white mare in her stall.

"Goodbye then, Molly old girl," he told her with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, "I thought it might be too good to last."

He slipped out the back of the barn without a backward glance, and set off across the pastures.

He wandered then for two years without destination. He never stayed in one town more than a few weeks, and an endless train of low-profile jobs flowed into one another: washing dishes, stocking shelves, scrubbing floors. Every inn and tavern began to look alike, every town full of the same people. He sometimes took up briefly with a traveling caravan, but remained distant and aloof, earning him a reputation as a snob amongst the caravans. But whatever he did, he avoided attention and blended easily into the background. He was quickly forgotten by all but a handful of those he encountered.


	4. Friendly Fire

_Author's note: This chapter was an awful block for me, thanks much to Tim for editing and DMing :-) Thanks also for suggestion from others, both through reviews and otherwise! I took some creative license with the actual events of the game, but only so far as to eliminate characters that were only there for one to five game sessions (i.e. Justin, Betsy). From Whitefall on, the major characters belong to their players rather than to my own imagination, right down to Sir William's garbled accent, which John recreates every other Saturday with amazing and ironic perspicuity. Todd: I hope you're happy with the level of smartass I've retained in Leto. Jenn: don't worry, Whisper's snarkiness will reveal itself more in time. _

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 4: Friendly Fire**

_"You know what you have to do. Your father has lost all reason, and dishonors the house of Evenflow. We have not heard from him in too long for us to place continued trust in him, and must consider him Rogue."_

_"You would ask me to kill my own father?"_

_"We ask you to live up to the duties and responsibilities of your position. It is rare that we entrust a bastard half-blood with a task of such honor, but you have performed well so far in eliminating the rogues who dare dwell in the human planes."_

_"Can no one else..?"_

_"We must protect our species and keep knowledge of our existence from the humans, this you know. Your father has threatened that protective anonymity by taking up with a human woman. You are to take care of it."_

_"My pleasure is to serve the will of the King," he muttered through clenched teeth. _

_The half-blood of the Summer Court and Winter Court kept an icy-neutral expression on his face as he bowed to the Summer Court official and strode from the room. His half-sister, a full-blooded Summer Court and a hundred years his senior, moved confidently to the official's side, threading her arm through the proffered bend of his elbow. _

_"Would you wager he'll do as he says?" She whispered._

_"My dear, that is precisely why you will be ready to step in if he does not. We will be keeping a close eye on your bastard brother, and if he fails me in this, you are to eliminate him as well."_

_"My pleasure is to serve the will of the King." _

Nathanial had just turned twenty three when he came into the town of Whitefall for the first time, but still resembled a boy of fourteen. He stopped to squeeze the last copper piece in his sagging belt pouch once more, and recited a quick charm for luck. He'd gone short rations for the last three days without finding any kind of employment, and was forced to stop a few days to set deadfalls in the woods for food. He could have found money without a job, but his pride still refused to allow him to consider begging or stealing.

He crested the hill above a town marked Whitefall and was charmed at the first sight of its simple prosperity. A clear, shallow river flowed past the mill, and the green trees along the paths gave the town an ambiance of peace and well-being. The Inn was easy to identify and well maintained, which told Nathanial that the place would be busy, the owner a taskmaster, and the kitchen clean. Not that he was particularly choosy anymore, but it was always nicer to earn his keep without flicking cockroaches from his shoes.

The door of the Inn was heavy, and opened up to a large room still lit by the sun filtering through the thick, wavy glass of the picture window by the door. The place was at the stage of fresh-scrubbed quietude between the last of the maids and the first of the customers. The silence was so complete that Nathanial wondered if the owner had simply stepped out and left the door unlocked. He cleared his throat experimentally. When it brought no reaction he rapped gently on the wooden bar and called, "Hello?"

A large, battle-scarred man emerged from the back wiping his hands on a butcher's apron and raised an eyebrow at the scruffy figure behind his counter.

"What do you want? And if you say a handout I'll bust your ass out that door with my foot!"

Nathanial wasn't intimidated by his brusque tone; he'd heard it from a hundred Innkeepers over the years.

"I'm not looking for charity. I'm wondering if you might have work that needs doing, either short or long-term."

The Innkeeper snorted and looked Nathanial over. Nathanial stood quietly under the scrutiny, although he had to admit it was more thorough than usual.

"What can you do?" barked the Innkeeper.

Nathanial shrugged and said "Anything." After a moment's thought he revised it somewhat, "anything done around an Inn anyway. And if you have something I don't know how to do, I'll learn. And I promise you'll only have to show me once."

The man looked at Nathanial thoughtfully, as if assessing him. Nathanial's hopes grew when the man didn't outright kick him out for being "cocky," as so many others had. He wasn't trying to brag, he simply stated the truth. After working at countless Inns in countless menial tasks, there wasn't much an Innkeeper could surprise him with.

"Can you wash dishes?" asked the Innkeeper.

Nathanial perked up hopefully, "Yessir."

The man pulled a towel off his shoulder and tossed it. Nathanial caught it readily and the man continued talking.

"Then here's how it's going to be, boy. You do what I say and when I say it. If you put in a good day's work there's room and board in it for you plus a little extra. My name is Monk, but that's Sir to you."

Nathanial nodded and stuck out his hand, "I'm Nathanial Holt."

Monk took it and shook once.

"Don't bother me with names Boy, I don't want to know yours until you've proven yourself worth remembering. So you'll be called Boy until then, and you'll answer to it, got it?"

Nathanial nodded, resigned. Monk gave him a room key and stuck one thumb towards the kitchen.

"Now settle your stuff and git to work. When you're done with the kitchen there's wood to chop."

"Yessir."

Nathanial put water on to boil before heading to his room to shed his gear. He whistled lightly as he moved towards the stairs, giddy with his sudden good fortune. Rarely did a job around an Inn include room and board, although most Inns would at least feed the help from whatever was left in the pot. He looked around the well-lit, clean kitchen and considered staying a while in Whitefall, at least to save up something for another stretch of travel.

After a month had passed, Nathanial was beginning to allow himself to hope he could settle in Whitefall. The town was peaceful, the people pleasant, and although he was a demanding boss, Nathanial found Monk to be fair and worth respecting. He pushed himself to live up to Monk's high standards, wishing to earn respect in return, but despite his efforts Monk never abandoned his nickname for Nathanial.

He had just swung open the door to his assigned room one afternoon when he heard a bellow from downstairs.

"BOY!"

He quickly tossed his backpack into the room and sprinted down the stairs in his armor to see what was needed of him. Monk was there handing change back to a scruffy looking man who twitched constantly, as if he wanted to be looking over his shoulder no matter what direction he was facing. Nathanial stood in front of Monk and gave him a half-mocking salute. Monk raised one eyebrow and stared him down, but even though his stare had lost none of its intimidation, Nathanial had begun to suspect there was humor lurking somewhere in the man's expression.

"Boy, take this man to the stable to see to his pony, then bring him back safely. Think you can handle that?"

"Yessir." He agreed, already thinking of the dishes and woodpile waiting for him before he could turn in. He held the door open for the man to pass through, but paused when Monk cleared his throat. Nathanial looked back at him expectantly.

"_Safely_, Boy."

He studied Monk's expression for a moment, puzzled. He glanced at the man placed in his charge and looked him over more carefully. Something about the weasely, twitching expression made him want to tuck his belt pouch into his clothing while the man was near him. Hesitant, and hoping he was reading Monk's signal correctly, Nathanial ran quickly back up to his room and re-donned his leather armor and Morningstar. Monk had occasionally asked him to wear them when he was expecting trouble in the bar, more as a deterrent than anything else. He took the stairs two at a time on the way back down, and from Monk's terse nod he knew he'd guessed correctly.

The man seemed almost reluctant to step out into the daylight when they left the bar, and Nathanial eyed him suspiciously. He looked up and down the street of the quiet town, but saw nothing out of the ordinary to cause the man to duck nervously behind crates and barrels as he walked. A few travelers were filtering towards the Inn, obviously foreign to the place. A few locals were going about their daily business, eying the foreigners suspiciously. They hadn't gotten far between the Inn and the gate to the stableyard when they heard a cry from across the road.

"THIEF!"

Nathanial jumped, one hand going to his belt pouch, the other to his Morningstar as an enormous man in mismatched armor charged towards them waving an axe. The man beside Nathanial seemed to freeze in terror for a matter of heartbeats before he broke like a racing sprinter towards the safety of the Inn. Nathanial had to jump to one side as an enormous figure, covered in gleaming armor like a knight from the old tales, galloped his horse through the confusion and knocked the accused thief down with a glancing blow from his lance. The twitchy man lay still in the street and the rider turned his horse to make another pass. A hot stubborn rage consumed Nathanial at the thought of scorn and disappointment on Monk's face when he reported the death of his assignment. He began cursing steadily under his breath while he fumbled with his Morningstar. He charged in recklessly and stood over the fallen man, ready to swing at anyone who stepped into range. He stared, enraged at the rider with the lance and felt the power stirring in his mind. The knight spurred his horse in their direction, but suddenly pulled up and threw his lance from him, shaking his hand as if in pain. Nathanial eyed the smoking weapon with satisfaction, thankful that luck was on his side.

His distraction nearly cost him his head, but when he heard a metallic clang just behind his left ear he ducked and swung blindly. He heard a grunt as the Morningstar connected with something solid, then another ringing blow of metal on metal. He jumped a step back and turned to see a woman in a long black leather skirt standing defiantly before the man with the axe. She gritted her teeth as she struggled to disarm the attacker with her sword. Confused at this unexpected assistance, Nathanial looked around to assess the fight. The knight was drawing a sword and preparing to charge again, but the sun reflected with bright intensity from his armor into Nathanial's eyes, obscuring most details. The accused thief was stirring and slowly stumbling to his feet with a trail of blood streaming from the side of his head. A weaponless man was leaning against the porch rail with an amused, cynical look on his face and a scruffy dog at his feet. With one wary eye on the newcomer, Nathanial stood by the thief he was obligated to protect and waited for the rider to get into range. The knight swung on him as he approached, opening his shoulder with a nasty slice, but Nathanial connected as well and nearly knocked the man from his horse. He felt his fingers go numb on the wounded arm, and switched his Morningstar awkwardly to his whole one. He heard a cry of warning behind him and turned in time to catch the flat of the axe across the temple, sending him sprawling in the dust. Dazed, he saw the axe's wielder evade the woman in black again and grab the accused thief by one hand. The smaller man was dragged onto the porch, kicking wildly and shrieking for help. Nathanial struggled to his feet and ran towards the porch as the larger man held the thief's hand flat against the railing and raised his axe to chop it off. His captive gave a final shriek and went limp in a dead faint. As the attacker's arm tightened for the final blow, the window behind him exploded in a shower of glass and a fist dripping blood and shards of glass took a rocklike grip on the hand with the axe. Nathanial ducked instinctively and skidded to a halt, awed at the sight of his boss standing behind the remains of the window with a look of murderous rage on his face. Monk flexed his arm and Nathanial winced at the sound of bones and tendons snapping beneath his fist. The axe dropped harmlessly to the porch floor as a stream of outraged foreign gibberish came from the owner of the broken hand. Monk snorted and took a step back, jerking the man through the broken window by his hand. It was a moment before he reappeared.

"YOU."

Nathanial flinched reflexively at the tone, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the others react the same way.

"ALL OF YOU. INSIDE. NOW."

They sheepishly headed towards the Inn door. Nathanial re-sheathed his Morningstar and tried to help the accused thief to his feet. The man with the dog came over and helped.

"I don't think you'll be getting a tip out of this one." He quipped, and Nathanial glared vacantly at him. The cut on his arm was beginning to throb and he gritted his teeth against it. They dragged the limp body inside to a table and laid it across the top before Nathanial collapsed in a chair and gripped his arm to stem the blood flow.

Monk looked the man on the table over and turned to one of the patrons at the bar. "YOU. Go get the temple priest."

The man scurried off without even finishing his beer, although not for a wistful look backwards as he went. Monk continued to glare at the combatants, arms folded. He glanced Nathanial's way, mouth half open in a command, then stopped and blinked. He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a small vial. He tossed it to Nathanial who reacted too slowly, but the man who'd helped him drag in his unconscious charge snatched the vial out of mid-air with a motion faster than Nathanial's eye could follow. He flourished the vial with a mocking bow and smug grin.

"Boy," ordered Monk, "Drink that and go clean yourself up."

Nathanial nodded wearily and threw back the contents of the bottle, shuddering at the unexpectedly vile taste. He felt a tingling sensation move over his skin and settle into his injuries. The itching was almost unbearable, but when the tingling had faded the wound on his shoulder was reduced to a string of bruises and a faint scar. He flexed his arm experimentally and found the pain all but gone. He looked up at Monk with some suspicion and curiosity. It wasn't his first experience with a magical potion, but it still made him uneasy. He preferred things to be solid and explainable.

"Would you be willing to sell me one of those potions?" asked the woman, examining her cuts and bruises from the fight.

Monk snorted and raked her over with scorn, "Hell no, try getting out of the way when someone swings at you."

She drew herself up haughtily, "Well excuse me for jumping in to protect a child outnumbered two to one."

"Child!?" interrupted Nathanial with some heat, "Not to be unappreciative of your help, but I was doing just fine!"

"Enough!" Monk shouted, cutting off her response, "Boy! I told you to go clean up; you still have things to do." He pointed a finger towards the stairs and with a last cold glare at the woman Nathanial limped up to his room.

"Now for the rest of you rejects," said Monk, "start talking."

Nathanial did his best to quickly scrub the dirt, sweat and blood from his skin and clothes, and changed into his only spare outfit. After a longing look at his bed he made his way back downstairs. The foreigners were still sweating under Monk's questioning, and Nathanial decided to escape the experience by ducking into the kitchen. He quickly washed the dishes in lukewarm water, and then listened in on the conversation as he dried them. The temple priest had arrived by then, and Nathanial finished mopping the floor before moving to the doorframe for a better view. He heard the priest pronounced the thief guilty, and with merciful efficiency the priest's assistant grabbed the thief's hand, sliced it from his wrist, and cauterized the wound with a spell. The thief fainted once again, and the stoic assistant slung the limp body over one shoulder before following the priest from the bar. Nathanial swallowed several times in horror and ducked back into the kitchen, trying to banish the sight from his mind with little success. He escaped out the back door to the woodpile, grateful that his part in these people's adventure was ended.

He was exhausted and sore by the time he stacked the last pieces of wood in the growing darkness. He stretched out his back with a groan and buried the axe firmly in the tree stump he'd used for a base. Wiping the sweat and woodchips from his neck he wandered inside and served himself a bowl of stew from the pot bubbling on the stove. He took no more than three steps into the main dining room before he spotted the table of foreigners from that afternoon sitting down to a beer and what looked like serious conversation. The knight was bent over the charred shaft of his lance attempting to repair it, and the woman looked to be in some heated debate with the dog's owner. Nathanial wheeled around on one foot without slowing or spilling a drop and tried as inconspicuously as possible to sneak back into the kitchen.

"Boy!"

He winced and turned back, sighing. Monk was looking straight at him and Nathanial limped over to the table.

"Yessir."

"Did you finish that woodpile yet?"

"Yessir."

Monk arched one eyebrow in surprise and grunted. Nathanial took note and wondered if Monk had really thought the chores would go undone because of a few bruises.

"Pull up a chair Boy; this may concern you as well."

Wanting no part of anything that concerned the brawling group of strangers he inwardly cursed his indiscretion at not eating in the kitchen. He set his food on the table between the woman and the odd man with the dog and ate as he listened, determined not to get involved.

"I've been looking to hire on some folks to protect certain objects in my possession," began Monk, "and while I cringe at the thought of turning it over to this bunch of misfits, circumstances may not leave me any choice. The job is to get these objects as far away from myself and Whitefall as possible, to keep them together and on the move, and protect them from anything that might try to get a hold of them. For this I'm offering each of you ten gold per day."

Nathanial's halfhearted interest suddenly became complete at this offer of mind-boggling wealth. He saw some of the others perk up as well, but the man next to Nathanial chuckled indulgently and scratched the ears of the dog beneath his chair. Nathanial began to regret his choice of seating as an intense, rank odor of rotting wool and sun-ripened dead skunk rose from the animal.

"Monk old man, you must think we're greedy enough to be stupid, and you might be right," said the man pleasantly, "but if you're offering that much money to baby-sit some trinkets there's a catch, and not a warm, fuzzy, friendly catch either."

"Of course there's a catch you idiot!" snapped Monk impatiently, "do you think I'd waste money on protection for these things if someone else wasn't looking for them?"

"So what are these items, and who is hunting them?" chimed in the woman in black, looking at Monk with glowering intensity.

"Actually, we don't know what they are, and we're trying to buy time to find out. They're being hunted by a witch named Khezrial, and I'll not name her again. She has some way of tracking them by magic, and we need to get them safely away to give us a chance to research their purpose. All we know is that if she wants them as badly as she seems to, they must be part of something powerful, and for her, getting what she wants usually means the death of anything in her way. She wants these enough to make me think that many, many lives are at stake, perhaps all life."

"So what you're asking them to do," asked Nathanial incredulously, before he could remind himself to not get involved, "is to save the world."

The man with the dog gave a short bark of laughter and choked on his beer.

"Nah kid, what he's asking us to do is die for some damn fool war that's not even ours."

"Cor!" chimed in the mismatched man, waving a beer expansively, "yamoossbeahbluh'yidyootden!"

There was a brief moment of silence as everyone tried to puzzle out what sounded vaguely like a dialect of common speech, but the Knight merely shook his head and turned calmly back to Monk.

"So you're asking us to put ourselves in direct danger so that you can take your time deciphering an academic puzzle? And you think…"

"What I'm asking you to do," interrupted Monk with a warning note in his voice, "is continue your travels wherever you would normally go, but together. You are to keep an eye out for anything suspicious, and stay out of trouble while you carry these things. I'm paying you extra to be smart, since I don't really trust you to make an effort at it otherwise, and I'm paying you to be cautious. Whether you choose to take it is up to you, but time is getting close and I need these to leave town tonight at the latest. "

Around him, Nathanial could see the strangers eye each other warily. Nathanial turned back to his plate.

"Boy?"

He looked up, startled and saw Monk looking at him expectantly.

"Sir?" he asked, then realization dawned on him. "You mean you're including me on this?"

"Why not?"

"Why not?" interrupted the woman with some heat and a subtle movement away from Nathanial, "He's a child and even if we did feel like babysitting, it's too dangerous for him."

Nathanial flushed and looked the woman over with some disdain. "I may not look it, but I'm probably older than you."

She gave him a scornful look, and the man with the axe slapped the table in glee.

"YaBouy,waytapoot'erinhurspoot!"

Nathanial looked at them both, then turned to Monk.

"I'll accept your offer, even if no one else does."

Monk nodded. "And the rest of you?"

One by one they assented, and Monk motioned for a barmaid to refill their drinks.

"It's settled then. I'll provide you with horses and supplies to set out, and a week's advance on your pay. You are not to return to Whitefall until you're contacted."

"When do you need us to set out?" asked the knight, still bent over repairs to his charred lance.

"Weren't you listening pansy boy?" snapped Monk, "You leave tonight. Right now."

He tossed several pouches onto the table and Nathanial could hear the clink of metal coins inside some. He weighed one experimentally and tied it to his belt pouch without counting. He then chose one of the misshapen leather pouches and pulled it open. A dull piece of fractured metal was inside, with part of an intricate design worked into the surface. It looked so completely ordinary that Nathanial had trouble believing someone would pursue it so relentlessly. He glanced up to see Monk glaring at him, and he quickly closed the bag, tying it to his belt and tucking it into the inside of his clothes for safe keeping. The others were doing the same, and gathering up their equipment.

Nathanial stood and climbed the stairs to what had so briefly been his home. He looked at the clean, soft bed and gave a resigned sigh before retrieving his backpack and still-damp clothing. He trudged downstairs and followed the others to the stable to choose a riding horse.

He wasn't the only one without a horse already, but the stranger with the dog didn't seem to want one. The man sat cross-legged on a bale of hay watching the others saddle their mounts with a sardonic grin.

"It must be terrible to have to rely on something to carry you through the world, eh folks?" I can go as fast on my own two feet as that critter there, without leaving big steaming piles..."

He was cut off as a bucket came hurtling out from a stall and clipped him on the shoulder.

"shyutyoorselfupalreadyidyoot," came the garble from the stall.

The man rubbed his shoulder resentfully and bit back a response. He was quite willing to be distracted, and brightened when he noticed Nathanial had entered.

"Boy! Glad you could join us, I believe you missed introductions. I'm Leto, this is Hooch."

The rank odor from the dog had not decreased, but he grinned up at Nathanial with a mad, vacant gleam in his eyes. Nathanial nodded.

"My _name_," he said with polite emphasis, "is Nathanial."

"Sure thing Boy," Leto continued with cheerful indifference. "The rather statuesque woman with the sword over there apparently goes by Whisper, although I somehow doubt she lives up to the name."

The woman scowled at Leto and did her best to pretend he was a flea stuck to the bottom of her boot.

"The very shiny walking signal mirror to your left is Ramses, a Paladin of Khalidine, and yonder hulking brute in the stall is Sir William Beaumont Merriweather the Third, at least if I understood him correctly. He suggested Sir for short, and while the suggestion is ridiculous, it may be just funny enough to go along with."

Nathanial nodded to each of his new companions warily and performed a closer inspection of the horses available. He ran his hands down legs and checked teeth and eyes, ignoring the pithy remarks from Leto. He settled on a light warhorse with a white star on his left fetlock, which the superstitious would call a sign of luck. He borrowed gear from the tack room and felt every tired muscle protest as he strapped the leathers onto the horse and swung into the saddle. Nathanial rode at the back of the party, wondering if he was in over his head.


	5. Fire in the Fall

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 5: Fire in the Fall**

_His quarry was kneeling with a defeatist slump to his shoulders amongst the burned out ruins of what might have once been a cottage. He stepped quietly forward and asked the question that had plagued him through a thousand miles of hunting. _

_"Why, father?"_

_The rogue patriarch of the Evenflow family continued to trail his fingers through the soil, still mixed with traces of ash._

_"That isn't a fair question to ask, Son. Why does anyone give up everything but for something more important than life itself?"_

_"But a human, father?__ What's the point? Your time with her will be so short, and you'll outlive her by hundreds of years! How can that be worth giving up what you had?"_

_"Their short lives give them a power to love like none other. Fifty years with her is worth five hundred under the thumb of a Summer Court female. But the real question here and now is son, are you going to do your duty?"_

_The half-breed frowned in irritation and re-sheathed his twin longswords. _

_"I cannot understand you, but I have no intention of killing you. Where is this human woman who's apparently worth so much? We should find her a safe place."_

_"She's far beyond any protection we could offer her now. She died in this fire many years ago. The child lived to die in another."_

_The son's head snapped around and his eyes blazed. _

_"Child!?__ You had children with this woman? Have you any idea the consequences!?"_

_"A child, called Nathanial. He would have been fifteen years old when he died. In his lifespan that makes him the same age as you, although I have not laid eyes on him since he was three weeks born. The townsfolk tell me he set fire to a tavern and died in the blaze only two years ago."_

_He grabbed his father by the tunic and spoke through clenched teeth._

_"Are you telling me I had a brother, and you chose to only tell me about him after it was too late to do anything to protect him?"_

_"I could not be sure he wasn't in danger from you son. After all, you have your duty..."_

_The man's head rocked back on his neck as his son's fist impacted with his jaw. Impassive, he watched the younger man mount his horse and gallop wildly down the path towards the small __village__ of __Franklin__. He thought briefly about calling out, or giving chase, but only watched the dust trail disappear around the bend. He finished his prayers for the beloved dead, lay one hand briefly on the cold remains of the last home he'd ever known, and rode east away from Franklin. _

_He had nothing left, and nothing left to defend. He would satisfy himself with obscurity for a little while. _

The road wound like a red ribbon through the iron-rich foothills east of Whitefall. The full moon had already struggled to the top of the sky by the time they set out, and soon began its lazy downward roll to the opposite horizon. They were just over a mile from the town when Whisper stopped her horse and looked around critically.

"So tell me, gentlemen, were we going to travel all night, or did you plan to stop at some point to camp?"

"Yoowannastoopahlrehdy? Cor! Whotapaynzee!"

"We might as well stop," Ramses agreed quickly, before Whisper could filter Sir's words and become offended, "once the moon is down the horses won't be able to see where they step. We're at least out of sight of Whitefall!"

"outta sight, outta mind," added Leto, "but we might want to post a watch anyhow."

"I'll take a watch," Nathanial called from the far side of his horse. He had slid wearily from the saddle at the first call to halt and began removing his horse's gear. The others followed suit and Nathanial ran a tether between two trees so the horses could graze without wandering.

"Now," proclaimed Whisper in an authoritative voice, "Sir and I will try and hunt something to eat, the rest of you work on building a fire."

Nathanial gave her a puzzled look and nearly bit his tongue in two trying not to snap back at her high handed tone.

"Why hunt, don't we all have rations?"

She smirked, and the condescending look in her eye made Nathanial grit his teeth.

"Because, Boy, we don't know how long we'll be on the road. We should save the rations for when we need them."

She turned pointedly away as Nathanial opened his mouth to respond, and strode away from the camp. He closed his mouth with a resentful snap and muttered angrily under his breath as he unpacked and laid out his bedroll and blankets. He earned a sympathetic chuckle from Leto, who was already lounging against a rock with his eyes closed. Ramses ignored them both in the interest of sanding a minute burr from the otherwise perfect edge of his sword.

Nathanial began to gather firewood around the camp, following the trail they'd just traveled until his arms were full. He trudged back to the camp, resentful that Whisper might take his effort as following her orders instead of a simple desire for the warmth and calming influence of a fire. When he arrived and dropped his armload near the center of the camp, he glanced over and saw that Leto had not only gathered more branches, but he didn't look as if he'd stirred from his seat against the rock. Nathanial kept one eye on the odd man while he worked to lay the tinder, and was rewarded with an explanation when Hooch came bolting up the hill carrying a large, well-chewed stick. The dog dropped his find neatly by Leto's side and barked expectantly, earning a friendly pat on the head.

"Good boy, Hooch."

He tossed the stick lazily over to the large pile and appeared to fall asleep. Hooch whined anxiously and his tail beat a halfhearted staccato on the ground. Leto quirked an eyebrow and stared at the dog, who grew more and more excited in anticipation. When the animal was worked into a frenzy of jumping and barking without so much as a word or movement from his master, Leto finally relented.

"Hooch, Fetch!"

The dog streaked off up a nearby deer trail and soon returned with another hefty stick, dropping it at Leto's feet. He patted Hooch and the drama played itself out again, until the dog was once again in yapping frenzy.

"Hooch, Fetch!"

It was less than an hour until they had enough firewood to last several days. Leto spent the last twenty minutes in meditation, but Hooch had learned the trick by then and continued to and from camp barking his own praise with each piece of wood retrieved. Nathanial sat comfortably and watched the game with amusement, poking occasionally at the fire and keeping the flames high.

They were settling into good cooking coals when Sir William returned triumphantly with an entire deer slung across his shoulders like a bloody shawl. The deer's head was split neatly in two from the nose to the skullcap. Nathanial stared, impressed regardless of whether Sir killed the deer by skill or luck, and when he finally shook his head and looked away he caught both Ramses and Leto wearing similar expressions.

Sir set to skinning the carcass, throwing some pieces of venison into the pot and spitting others to roast in the coals. Nathanial threw part of his supply of cooking herbs from Monk's kitchen into the boiling stew just as Whisper stormed into the middle of the camp with a brace of squirrels and an air of harried, defensive pride. When she saw the roasting venison a spasm crossed her face akin to indignation. Sir barely looked up from his roasting meat before he began to snicker.

"Aboottimeyeshewdup…wotchoogot,bunch'arodints?"

Whisper puzzled the mangled words into the intended insult and threw the squirrels down in a huff. She stubbornly set to gutting and skinning her kill, but as much as she tried to ignore the others, they weren't ready to forgive her earlier attitude.

"So, Whisper," started Leto, "just how many arrows did you waste to bring down those fearsome beasts?"

She gritted her teeth and refused to acknowledge the question with anything but a quick, defiant shake of her head. Sir laughed and joined in the fun.

"Oifeersumbeas'sa'wright! Thathings'sdeadly!"

Nathanial began to feel sorry for Whisper, enough at least to feel some empathy. But she seemed the type that would resent any assistance, and Nathanial was too wary yet to draw attention to himself by taking sides.

"Leave her be," said Ramses in an eerie echo of Nathanial's own thoughts. "At least," he said with a pointed look at Leto and Nathanial, "she's trying."

Nathanial bit back the indignant comment that jumped to the tip of his tongue, and stared sullenly into the fire. The others quieted down as well, but Whisper resolutely roasted and ate the squirrels, scorning the fresh roasted venison and thick, meaty stew. When everyone was full and picking at the remains, Nathanial grew tired of the uneasy silence that had cropped up between them. Several short stabs at conversation only earned him haughty stares, disinterested silence, and one outburst from Sir where he roughly translated

"Bouy!Sheeutde'elloop!"

As an order to be silent. Frustrated, he finally gave up on encouraging everyone to get along and decided to at least get himself rested for the long ride in the morning.

"Fine then," he announced into the thick silence, causing at least some of them to jump in surprise, "you deal with each other. I'm going to sleep. Wake me to take watch whenever you need to."

He flopped onto his bedroll and adjusted his hat to cover his eyes. He missed the bemused looks the others exchanged, but in a brief flash of bitter optimism he realized that at least there would be no chit-chat to keep him awake that night.

Nathanial was shaken rudely to consciousness in such an eerie memory of the night he'd left the orphan farm that he shot upright with a choked gasp before he took in his surroundings. It was dark and the fire had dwindled to orange-red coals that cast a demonic light on Sir's face as he leaned over his bedroll.

"Wha..." Nathanial yawned, "is it my watch?"

"Nooyedoombahstid, s'tamtewaykoop! Tamtegoo!"

The others were stirring awake and looking around.

"Time to go, are you crazy?" snapped Whisper, "it's the middle of the night!"

"Nos'notyadoombeetch,Ahseenthasoono'erthaway."

He pointed one arm back towards the town, and the party all took a moment to filter through his accent and look for the sun rising where he pointed. Nathanial looked up at the still-starry sky and frowned.

"But Sir," he said … that's impossible; you're saying the sun's rising in the west?"

Ramses flopped back down on his bedroll and Nathanial heard him muttering under his breath,_ "Crazy bastard, probably sleepwalking…."._ Whisper was glaring at Sir with her arms crossed, having finally caught on to the fact Sir had insulted her again, and Leto seemed to be settling back down to sleep. Nathanial gave Sir a long look of appraisal, searching his face for any sign of trickery. With a sigh, he scrambled up onto a rock to give himself a better sight range and looked again towards the west. There was indeed a soft red glow lighting the sky behind the chain of hills, but it was too close to be the sun.

"Fire!" Nathanial shouted, "Whitefall's on fire!"

He half scrambled, half slid down the rock face and ran to saddle his horse, startling it out of a light doze. He dove into his leather armor and assembled his weapons. When he turned back, he saw that only Ramses and Leto had followed suit and prepared to move out. Whisper and Sir sat watching from their bedrolls.

"WeryoogooindenBuoy?"

"Why aren't you coming!?" Nathanial asked with some exasperation. They gave him a look as if he were missing the obvious. "Are you just going to sit here and let the town burn to the ground? We could be helping!"

Whisper cleared her throat and spoke in a slow patient voice that grated Nathanial's nerves.

"We're not supposed to go back there, remember Boy? We're supposed to keep the items away from the town, not go charging into it. For all we know, this is an attack by Khezrial and we'd be walking into a trap."

Nathanial climbed back to the top of the rock and looked back impatiently. If he didn't try to help, and someone was hurt, he knew he'd feel responsible. After a moment of internal debate he jumped down from the rock and walked purposefully towards Whisper. He pulled the leather pouch from his belt that held the items he was supposed to guard, and handed it to her.

"As long as the items aren't in town, we're still following orders. I have to see if I can help."

Whisper shrugged and accepted the bag, along with those Ramses and Leto held out to her a moment later. The three rode and ran towards Whitefall as fast as possible, watching the red glow fill the sky above the hills.

When they topped the last hill the wave of heat and smoke rolled over them in a suffocating cloud. They could see a full third of Whitefall ablaze beneath them. Nathanial paused a moment in awe at the living mass of fire consuming the town, and the tiny trail of humans waging battle against it. After a brief survey of the rescue efforts he galloped the horse to the river, where a large force of men and women passed buckets back and forth from the river to houses that could still be saved. Nathanial grabbed two of the buckets waiting at the shore and spurred his horse up the line. The beast charged through without protest and stood still while Nathanial wetted the smoldering thatch roof. The other two began the same work, and slowly the three helped the townsfolk create a circle of wet earth and wood to trap the fire and keep it from spreading to the rest of the village.

Countless trips later, Nathanial looked up from his work to the sound of a distant, inhuman shriek. He looked down the main throughway of the village to the doors of the temple, through which stumbled a neophyte priest with blood streaking his face and robes. Nathanial abandoned the water brigade and galloped towards the priest, who was wandering numbly down the street. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leto and Ramses break away as well and move in the same direction.

He was no more than halfway to the temple when his horse suddenly reared and leaped over something in the road, nearly unseating him. He groped for the reins and looked down to one side where a strange, legless beast groped at his horse's legs with its blackened arms. Its skin was the color of tar and glistened in the light of the fire. Nathanial swung wide with his morningstar from a loss of balance, but his horse reared again and crushed the creature's skull with its hooves. Nathanial managed to hold on to his weapon as he took a firmer grip on the saddle, and tried to re-orient himself. When his horse shied he looked down and spotted another creature making its way along the wall of the nearest house. The creature gave the wooden wall a loving caress and an odd cooing noise came from what passed for its mouth. Flame blackened the wood where it had touched it, and the fire began to crawl its way hungrily up the wall. Nathanial finally shook off his disorientation and swung his morningstar with a shout of rage. This time he connected and the creature crumpled under the blow.

A piercing shriek came from the direction of the temple, and Nathanial looked up to see fire lick its way towards the entryway doors. He held out one hand when he reached the dazed neophyte and helped the young priest climb onto the horse behind him. He saw Leto and Ramses both stop to kill more of the black creatures, but they were soon finished and passed him by. When Nathanial reached the temple, Ramses was already charging through the burning doors without the barest hesitation. Nathanial passed the reins back to the priest with a shout to stay put, then followed Ramses more cautiously into the temple.

The interior was dark and cool compared to the heat outside, but the glow from the burning buildings shed a shifting orange light through the windows. It was enough for him to pick out shapes and shadows.

"Boy!" called Ramses from somewhere ahead of him, "Do you have a torch?"

Nathanial pulled out an alchemical light and twisted the end to activate it. It flared brightly for a moment and he had to blink to clear the spots from his vision. He tossed it into the center of the room to light their search and jumped at the alien shriek of protest from above. Instinct alone made him duck as a winged creature out of a nightmare dove past him. The creature passed just over his head, and Nathanial choked on the breeze that followed, thick with the scent of rotting eggs. A more human cry made him look up, and through watering eyes he saw the thing swoop and rake a taloned claw across the chest of a young priest, throwing him to the ground. An older priest lay behind the assistant in a crumpled heap, either dead or close to it.

Ramses charged towards the creature without hesitation, making it squawk in outrage as it dodged his sword. It turned its attention fully to this new threat and Ramses drove it steadily away from the two fallen figures. Nathanial ran to the younger priest's side and hauled him to his feet. He swayed slightly and leaned on Nathanial, but when he tried to guide him towards the open door the man balked, refusing to leave without the other Priest. Nathanial gave him a shove towards the door and strained to pull the unconscious man across his shoulders. He barely managed it, and half-stumbled under his burden on his way outside.

He emerged through the choking smoke to see Leto finishing off the last of a swarm of the legless monsters that had circled the temple. The Neophyte had dismounted at the sight of the injured priest, and between them they lifted the body of their elder from Nathanial's shoulders and supported it between them. At a shout from Nathanial they half-ran towards the safety of the fire brigade, where men and women were already treating the injured. Nathanial turned to charge back into the temple, but Ramses had just emerged, wiping black blood from his sword. They mounted up and galloped back towards the brigade with Leto on foot outpacing the horses.

They saw the brigade's reaction to the creatures crawling towards the Inn before they were close enough to see the monsters themselves. A swarm was moving with single-minded purpose towards Monk's, and Nathanial shouted for his horse to charge. The animal's ears twitched eagerly and it grabbed the bit in its teeth, nearly tearing the reins from Nathanial's grip. When they reached the mass of creatures the horse snorted and began lashing out with its hooves, killing several of them before Nathanial found an opportunity to swing. When the Morningstar connected his exhausted muscles nearly gave out at the force of impact. He knew he wouldn't last much longer. Ramses and Leto were holding their own, mowing through the mass with well-placed blows.

He caught movement from the corner of his eye and looked up at Monk, standing on the edge of the fracas tapping a stout cudgel against one palm. He had a look of annoyance on his face, but it didn't seem directed at the creatures they were fighting. Nathanial gathered his breath and shouted at the man.

"Monk! Are you going to help, or just stand there?"

Monk gave him a level stare, and then shrugged. He swung his cudgel and waded into the melee. By the time Nathanial had finished off the next creature, Monk had dispatched every other remaining with humbling ease.

It took him two attempts to re-sheath his Morningstar before Nathanial slid gracelessly from the horse and leaned against it with closed eyes. He could feel sweat mixing with soot and nameless grit on his face and arms, and his legs trembled with exhaustion. When he opened his eyes he saw Monk standing before him with arms crossed. Nathanial was somewhat irritated that Monk hadn't even broken a sweat, and weariness left him without much caution.

"It took you long enough to help," he snapped sarcastically.

Monk raised one eyebrow, and his scathing tone was strong enough to silence anyone.

"I figured that even YOU could handle these little things."

Nathanial flushed at the implication, as well as the truth of the statement. The creatures had died quickly, it was their number that made the task seem more difficult than it was. Monk continued, in an icy voice dripping with suppressed violence.

"I would like to know what in _hell_ possessed you to ride _back_ into Whitefall while it was under attack by Khezrial. Please, explain this to me, because I can't think of a single explanation that doesn't involve you being an idiot."

Nathanial had been expecting at least some acknowledgement of their assistance, and was somewhat flustered by this attack. When he finally found his voice he cringed at his own meek tone.

"We thought they needed help...that maybe we could help..."

Monk shook his head.

"_Maybe_ I didn't explain things clearly enough," he said sarcastically, "_maybe_ I should have been more specific when I told you to _keep those things_ as _far away _from Whitefall as _possible!_"

"They _are_!" Nathanial protested in a stronger tone of voice. "Sir William and Whisper have them."

Monk simply put his head in one hand and sighed. Nathanial could almost see the rage building in him, and quickly looked for an escape route. Finally Monk looked up and pointed towards the eastern road the group had originally left town on.

"GO AWAY."

None of the three wanted to push their luck, and left town quickly and quietly, with only some disgruntlement at the lack of thanks. They made it back up to the campsite where Nathanial simply sat and glared at the campfire, covered with sweat, soot and smoke. The others drifted off to sleep when Leto conveyed the story, and Nathanial was left to take the next watch. Restless, he piled more wood on the fire, taking satisfaction in the size and fury of the flames. Before dawn, most of the firewood was gone, and Nathanial's frustration had eased.


	6. Fire Away

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 6: Fire Away**

_Farmer Alderson was settling in for a late-night smoke when the pounding came at the door. He pulled himself out of his chair with a groan and limped across the room, wondering where he could possibly fit another orphaned child in the bunkhouses. When he opened the door, there was only a man concealed in a cloak and hood, with something indefinably foreign about him._

_"Mr. Alderson, of the… orphan farm?" The stranger tripped over the last two words as if they were distasteful to him._

_Alderson didn't see a child with the man, and a hope emerged that he might be in search of an apprentice, or even an adoption._

_"Yes it is sometimes called that. I prefer to call it a home instead, but come in, please. Can I offer you something to drink?"_

_The stranger shook his head. As he stepped into the main room he peeled back his hood, still damp from the light rain, and peered around with curiosity. Alderson did a double take at the sight of the man's features and reached for his pipe to take a soothing puff. He'd never seen the man before in his life, but yet he was oddly familiar. The cloak was of fine quality, and an intricate leather headband circled his brow. Alderson wondered if the man wasn't of some royal family looking to adopt, as he sat at the table and gestured for the stranger to join him there. _

_The visitor cleared his throat and began without preamble. _

_"I'm asking after a young boy you had here at the home until two years ago. His name was Nathanial."_

_Alderson started, and wondered what the boy had done to bring the recent string of people knocking at his door. He tried to control the nerves trying to shake his voice, and thought he managed to sound casual._

_"Nathanial Holt, I remember him. He died in a tavern fire two years ago. The townsfolk think he set it."_

_The man had noticed the start, and his eyes narrowed as the farmer spoke. _

_"That's what I hear," the stranger said, sitting back in his chair and tapping one foot, "but I have my doubts. Tell me about him, what he was like."_

_"I'm afraid that's not my place to tell. The boy's long dead, and should be no concern to anyone."_

_The man looked the lying farmer over coolly and removed his leather headband. Alderson's eyes went wide at the sight of the long ears tapering to points. _

_"Every concern," the stranger said calmly, "The boy was, or is, my brother."_

Nathanial was kicked awake by a cursing Sir William, and rolled from the attack with his arms flung protectively across his face.

"BOUY! Wotdee'elljoodowitourfirewoo?"

He peeked cautiously over one arm and saw Sir and Whisper both glaring at him across the ashes of last night's bonfire.

"YeesumkindapyroBouy? Yefookincrazy?"

Nathanial rolled to his feet and ignored the grousing about the missing firewood, but couldn't shake off the icy glare of Whisper's eyes on his back as he rolled up his bedding and stuffed it unceremoniously into a saddle bag. He was as angry with himself as they were for letting his fascination get the best of him. Guilt and short sleep did not put him in the best of moods, but then neither did the lack of water to bathe after the previous night's exertions. He climbed into the saddle with a groan, earning a sympathetic look from Ramses.

"You'll get used to it soon enough Boy. We've got a long way to go."

His friendly tone took some of the sting out of the nickname, and Nathanial began to resign himself to it.

The road met up with a wide, clear river carving its way through sandy banks, and they stopped in the high heat of the afternoon to rest the horses at a small landing. Nathanial gratefully stripped down to his breeches, leaving them on only for Whisper's sake. He dove eagerly into the water and let it rinse away the twenty-four hour accumulation of dust, soot, blood and sweat. The water came to his waist in the deepest part, and he could feel the tug of the current against his legs when he stood. The coolness of the water seemed to penetrate to his very bones, and the relief of it made him laugh out loud with delight.

He noticed the party looking at him with a wide range of expressions from amusement to scorn when he climbed back on the bank to retrieve his clothes. He made sure his hair covered the tips of his ears whenever he was in sight, but otherwise only acknowledged their presence with a sarcastic salute before he waded back into the water.

He rinsed his outer clothes as best he could and hung them on bushes along the stream bank before his stomach finally convinced him that the mouth-watering smells from the cookfire were more important than wetting his already-clean skin. He sat down on a fallen log wearing only his breeches and his hat, knowing how odd the combination looked. Water dripped steadily from him as he wolfed down his share of the venison pieces wrapped and roasted in herbs. Whisper sniffed in his direction, whether in appreciation of his improved odor or in disapproval of his soaked, half-bare appearance Nathanial didn't care. He was clean and comfortable with the sun on his face, and was ready to get along with anyone.

"You look," she proclaimed haughtily, "like a drowned rat."

Nathanial swallowed a bite and grinned easily.

"There're worse things I suppose. At least I'm clean."

He hadn't meant to imply that she wasn't, and almost groaned when her spine stiffened in indignation. But she only stood and stomped over to a nearby clearing, unslinging her bow. He kept one wary eye on her to make sure he wasn't her target.

"keepta'ellawayfroomtefyrebouy, ahwantsoomwoodleftfertamoora."

Nathanial looked up at Sir glaring at him suspiciously from the cookfire. Nathanial shrugged and went back to watching Whisper practice with her bow. Leto laughed from a corner.

"You've got an axe don't you? You do know how to use it, don'tcha Sir?"

Sir looked at him scornfully.

"wullYAHIknewstauseit! Culdsplity'edopenfrom'ere,effahwantato."

"Then it bears to reason," chimed in Ramses, "that if you can split a human head, you can also split some kindling when we need it."

Sir actually began to splutter, and Nathanial eased back on the log in case Sir decided that splitting heads was more his style. It was only when Whisper stormed over to scold them that the argument ceased.

"If you GENTLEMEN are finished eating, perhaps we could make it to a town by nightfall, hmmm?"

The three shot wary looks at each other, and moved towards their horses. Sir packed up his cooking gear and loaded into the saddlebags while Nathanial kicked sand over the remains of the fire. There was a strained silence that continued through the afternoon.

They arrived in a sprawling city proclaiming itself to be MarketTown just as the sun dipped down to the horizon. The main street ran east to west, so the setting sun seemed to coat the rows of vendors with gilt. Tents became golden, jewelry flashed warmly in the angle of light, and a level of calm began to infuse the crowds pushing their way through the street. When the sun's light was only a vague sliver above the horizon the rows of vendors erupted with a loud shout of "LASTS!" echoing up and down the rows of tables and tents. The horses spooked, and Nathanial barely managed to keep his from bolting through the masses of people on foot. His hand dropped nervously to his Morningstar and he looked around for some source of alarm, but other than a surge of last-minute shopping the street was quickly clearing. Less than a minute later the vendors began packing up their wares and closing their wagons for the night.

Ramses led them through the town, and called for a halt in front of a seedy looking Inn tucked amongst warehouses in the heart of Markettown. It had no name, simply a rough-hewn sign proclaiming "Ale" in blood-red letters above the door. The one window was shattered and covered with mismatched boards. Empty crates and broken bottles lay in a heap as if merely kicked away from blocking the door. The Inn was painted in a clashing riot of colors, as if the leftover paint from a hundred other projects were used to cover the walls.

"I say, Ramses," Leto piped up sarcastically, "classy place, but are you sure its not too high-brow for us? They might require formal wear."

Ramses shrugged and dismounted.

"We want to be as inconspicuous as possible."

Nathanial wondered privately how a six foot paladin in gleaming metal armor could possibly be anything but conspicuous in such a place, but he held his tongue and dismounted. He tied his horse to the rail outside the Inn, without much hope that it would hold the creature if it wanted to escape. The others threw each other dubious looks as they followed suit, and Nathanial anticipated another long discussion once they had food and a drink inside them.

He squinted once he was through the doorway, and let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside. The boarded windows let narrow flashes of sun worm their way to the interior, but all other light came from oily lanterns set high on the walls. A dark cone of cemented soot and grease spread up the wall from each lantern, darkening walls already stained with shades of grey, yellow and a queasy greenish-brown. An assortment of tables in all sizes and shapes were scattered about the room, few of them occupied. The burly dozen or so patrons had a permanent air to them, as if they'd been there so long they'd become fixtures of the building itself. The bartender himself sat at the end of his bar with an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid, carving something into the top of the counter.

Ramses strode up to the bar while the others filed in more cautiously behind him. He stood a few feet from the bartender, who glanced up at him, then returned to his work with a dismissive wave of his hand. Ramses actually looked nonplussed for a moment, then rapped briskly on the bar with his gauntleted knuckles. The bartender's head slowly rose, staring at the offending hand. Ramses decided that this was close enough to an acknowledgement and jumped straight to the point.

"Sir, we'd like to order drinks, and food if you serve it."

Several of the party members shuddered at the thought of eating anything prepared in this building. Nathanial saw Leto carefully raise one foot to clear the path for a cockroach the size of his thumb. Leto had an odd twisted expression on his face, and Nathanial wondered how close it was to his own. The cockroach headed for a corner and Leto lowered his foot to the floor with a sigh. The bartender's only response to Ramses was a short contemptuous grunt.

Ramses leaned over and tapped the bar right in front of the man.

"See here, Barkeep...."

He pulled his hand out of the way in time to avoid losing a finger as the carving knife buried itself half an inch into the wood. Ramses looked indignant and opened his mouth to protest. The bartender pulled the knife from the bar and turned one steely eye up to him.

"Feck off."

Ramses shut his mouth with an audible snap. His companions noticed uneasily that the other patrons were taking an active interest in the conversation. One of them drew a dagger and laid it next to his glass. Another did the same with a crossbow. Ramses made another attempt.

"Really, there's no call for rudeness. Or threats, which, if I may remind you, are illegal by territory law. So if you'd be so kind as to put that knife away, I would be happy to pay you double for drinks. I should warn you, however, that should you continue to threaten me with that dagger I will be forced to defend myself, and possibly make a citizen's arrest."

Leto and Whisper exchanged half-panicked, long-suffering glances at that prospect. She carefully stepped behind Sir to avoid notice, and drew her falchion, hiding the blade discreetly beneath a fold of her cloak. The bartender began to chuckle, and sheathed the dagger. He reached under the bar and there was a moment of held breath while everyone in the room waited for their cue to attack or defend. When the bartender's hands surfaced with nothing more threatening than a set of dusty mugs it was as if the building itself sighed and released the explosive tension. Nathanial could hear his own heart beating in his chest as his shoulders sagged in relief. The bartender began whistling cheerfully and reached down for a bottle. When he surfaced again it took a moment for the crossbow in his hands to register with party or patrons. Ramses reacted first and cut the man's head neatly from his shoulders. The bartender's shot went wide and the room erupted.

Most of the patrons had crossbows and the bolts flew past members of the party. Nathanial turned to look for some sort of cover when something hit him hard in one shoulder, spinning him around to the floor. He lay a moment, stunned before reaching back a tentative hand and closing it around the crossbow bolt buried in his skin. His stomach crawled for a moment, but he was surprised at the lack of pain. Grasping the shaft, he pulled it sharply out, and the furies of hell were awakened in the wound. He clenched his teeth around a low groan and shied away from a bolt flying past him to bury itself in a table.

_"You'll be slaughtered if you stay put, Nate me mate," _he told himself sharply in that tone of Brand's that always sounded reasonable. He took a deep breath and managed to pull himself to a half-crouch to run for the cover of the bar. He ducked a swing from a mace and dodged behind the counter, tripping over the forgotten body of the dead bartender. When he landed on his hands and knees a sharp, angry pain shot down his torso from his wound and it was a brief moment before he shook his head to clear it. He heard the sound of steel connecting with steel and found his resolve, along with the bartender's crossbow. He got the man's fingers unwrapped from the weapon and espied a full quiver of bolts half-hidden behind a row of bottles beneath the bar. He pulled it out without a thought, and the bottles smashed on the floor around his feet. The fumes from the liquor nearly choked him, but he got the crossbow loaded and peeked cautiously over the counter.

He spotted a man about to swing a chair across the back of Whisper's head, but she was engaged with two other attackers and oblivious to the new threat. Nathanial planted a bolt neatly in the man's throat, using the counter to steady his aim. He ducked a returning arrow and dropped back down to reload. When he rose again he shot too quickly, and only winged a man's shoulder before a bolt came his way and left a gouge along the outside of his left arm. Cursing, he dropped back down, clutching his arm. When he hit the floor he tried to reload the crossbow with hands slippery with blood. He dropped the next bolt on the floor, and rather than fumbling for it in the broken bits of glass he drew another and locked it frantically into place. He drew a deep breath and surfaced again, but found there was nothing left to shoot at. The last patron was lying across the doorway itself, breathing in short gasps. Blood bubbled up from the corners of his mouth and spilled across his cheeks as he finally stopped breathing altogether. Nathanial swallowed hard and looked away.

The light from the doorway was suddenly blocked, and Nathanial brought up the crossbow to fire. At first he thought the creature in the doorway couldn't possibly be human. Its robes were woven in a thousand conflicting colors, some of which didn't even recall names. The colors changed and flowed into each other with every movement of the fabric. As the figure lifted its robes to step disdainfully over the fallen body on the floor, Nathanial had to close his eyes and rub them to eliminate the glare etched into his vision. He very nearly disliked the thing on sight.

"Can I help you?" Nathanial asked sarcastically.

The thing stopped and looked him up and down. A creature resembling a monkey peeked out from around the thing's head with a pleading expression of misery on its face. Its fur had been dyed in bright shades of oranges and red, which somehow both accented and clashed with its owner's robes. Nathanial got the strong impression of an animal at the end of any shred of dignity, and felt a fierce stab of pity for the thing.

Ramses stepped over to Nathanial when he saw the blood staining his traveling clothes. He looked over the wounds briefly then nodded.

"Hold still Boy."

Nathanial nodded and waited to see if Ramses would pull out a needle and thread. He'd had stitches before and had horrific memories of the experience. But Ramses merely laid his hands on Nathanial's head and began to mutter. He saw a soft golden glow envelope them both, and his wounds began to itch uncontrollably as they healed over.

The taller creature, identifiable as a man once out of the glare of the doorway, looked past Nathanial dismissively and stepped up to the bar with a casual glance at Ramses. He tapped one finger on the bar as he spoke.

"I do hope the drinks are better than the decor. I'll take a glass of your finest ...."

He suddenly stopped in mid-sentence and took a second, longer look at Ramses, who'd straightened and was staring icily at the man for his presumptuous tone. The stranger's eyes hungrily lapped over all six feet of blond muscle in plate mail. He gave out a low whistle.

"Come..to..pappa.." They heard him mutter under his breath.

The party locked eyes in disbelief. Nathanial reviewed the robed figure again, wondering if he was mistaken and it was indeed a female. Puzzled, he couldn't find anything, other than the walk, that would indicate so. He shuddered and managed to tell himself against his own eyes that he had not just seen a man make flirtatious advances on a Paladin of Kalidine.

"A _pleasure_ to meet _you_, my name is Leshar," the stranger said with his hand out as if a woman expecting it to be kissed. Ramses took it and gave the hand a quick shake. When he went to disentangle himself from the grip there was a brief struggle as Leshar seemed reluctant to release him.

Nathanial opened and closed his mouth like a fish, waiting for a reaction but not knowing what possibly to say. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a gleam in Leto's eye that could not bode well for any situation, but before Leto could speak he was interrupted by a strangled gasp from Whisper. Everyone turned, hands on weapons in case some new threat had appeared, but saw only Whisper crouched over one of the dead patrons, staring at an unrolled sheet of parchment. She was ghostly white, and Nathanial took a step towards her.

Suddenly conscious of the attention on her, Whisper blushed and shoved the parchment into a pocket on her cloak. She avoided meeting anyone's eyes as she moved on to search the next fallen body.

"Whisper," asked Ramses cautiously, "are you all right?"

She gave her head a quick shake, but whether in answer or dismissal no one could tell. She apparently didn't find what she was looking for on the next patron, and moved on the search another. Leshar was stirred to curiosity, and bent over the dead body in the doorway. When he straightened, he was staring at a piece of parchment with a look of smug triumph on his face.

"Oh my my..."

Whisper's face drained of color and she turned slowly. Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her falchion when she saw the parchment in the stranger's hands. Leshar seemed to relish his small victory and stared critically from the parchment to Whisper's face.

"Not to worry dear, a very poor rendition of you. But why on earth would someone want you dead, hmmmmmm?"

She approached him with a measured stride, and a cold, glittering black rage on her face that nearly sent Nathanial diving behind the bar again. He swore to himself at that moment to never do anything that would direct that look toward him, and felt some measure of sympathy for the stranger who'd unwittingly goaded her to it. She approached the stranger at a deliberate walk, tore the parchment from his hands in a single, lightning fast movement, and shredded it onto the floor at his feet. The two locked eyes for a single moment, with Whisper finally matched in high-handed superiority. An epic battle crossed the small space between their eyes and no one but the participants knew who won the struggle. Whisper turned on one heel and motioned towards the door with her head.

"We have to leave town...now."

Her companions all exchanged looks, wondering if the stranger would really get off so easily or if there was violence yet in store. Her exit from the building was anticlimactic, and it was a moment before everyone shook off their puzzlement to follow. They had unhitched their horses and were partway down the street before they realized LeShar was following them.


	7. Old Friends, New Flames

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 7 – Old Friends, New Flames**

_The trail was years cold, but once he learned Nathanial was alive he would not be discouraged. He spent a year searching in an agonizingly slow spiral outward from __Franklin__ before he found his first hope in the memory of a weapons merchant. From there the trail disappeared again, and it was months before he came across a clue by accident. A vendor remarked on his familiar face, and he learned the boy had lingered here for more than a year. He doubled back and found a horse breeder who remembered him with some fondness and regret. Each time the boy had disappeared without a trace and he would resort to searching randomly until Nathanial's name or face rang a bell with an inn or shop keeper. There was no pattern to the movements, and he wondered if the lack was intentional, or simply a mark of someone with nowhere to go. But the trail was getting fresher each time Nathanial stopped, and he was closing in._

More to the point, Leshar was following Ramses. The Paladin was oblivious to the covetous stare that tracked his every move, but from the mixture of pity and glee on Leto's face _he_ at least knew it, and Nathanial examined and discarded ways of tactfully pointing out Leshar's interest to Ramses. Complicating the matter further was the fact that Nathanial had no way of knowing if Ramses returned Leshar's sentiment. He suspected that these things were seen in a different light in the cities of the continent than the farming stop he'd been raised in. He'd also heard mention that this or that religious order often condoned such relationships, but he'd never heard that of Kaladine. Out of frustration, he chose to bite his tongue, rather than be marked as a bumpkin and once more the subject of ridicule.

The source of the party's white-knuckled silence rode cheerfully on beside them, holding an animated, one sided discussion which wandered from topic to topic without any signs of settling or expecting a response. Whisper was the only one quieter than Nathanial, as she seemed to approach the problem by openly refusing to acknowledge Leshar's presence on the same planet, much less within twenty feet of her horse.

She was obviously more worried about the pieces of parchment she'd found in the tavern. She fidgeted constantly, glancing over her shoulder for signs of followers so often that Nathanial waited for her neck to stick in the twisted position. Ramses pulled up his horse near dusk, but was halted as he prepared to dismount by a low growl from Whisper.

"We can't stop yet, I need to put more distance between me and that town."

Ramses straightened in the saddle and appraised her carefully.

"How long do you plan on riding tonight Whisper? I will not risk my horse if the footing becomes unstable in the dark."

Whisper's tone and face softened, making her next words a plea rather than a demand.

"Just a while longer, please? You don't know what's at stake..."

"Well," interrupted Leto, "You could always _tell_ us what's at stake, seeing as how we're apparently going to be riding into midnight because of it."

Whisper gave her head a firm shake and lowered her eyes to avoid their expectant stares. Ramses waited a few moments, then took pity on her and nudged his horse back into a steady walk. The moon was high and full, and still shed enough light to navigate by.

The passage of a cloud obscured the intersection where the main road turned off, and soon the path grew narrow and overgrown. The open fields became forest, and the wall of dense underbrush crowded in around them. Nathanial rode in a near-doze. To him the trees seemed to watch them pass, and any movement caught from the corner of his eye startled him awake in a panic. The adrenaline kept him alert for a few moments, but it wasn't long before the steady rocking of the horse lulled him to sleep again. His dreams were haunted by ghosts of lost travelers, which grew in his imagination as the woods darkened. Incorporeal hands reached out to brush his legs, but when he flailed out at them he caught only leaves. A short time later there was a moment of panic as a skeletal hand seized him suddenly by the throat and arms and began to pull him from the saddle. He struggled to wake but the dream did not dissipate. His own shriek finally woke him and startled the others into a confused brandishing of weapons. He flailed with both hands at the bony fingers choking him, gasping more from fear than lack of breath. Whisper trotted her horse up next to Nathanial's and freed him with a single slash of her falchion. He put one tentative hand up to catch the remains falling from his neck and sheepishly cast aside the pieces of King's Ivy he'd ridden through in the dark. He met Whisper's look of disgust with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders and hurried forward to catch up with Ramses. The Paladin had stopped his horse and was staring into the woods at one side of the path.

"What is it?" Nathanial hissed, one hand carefully unlatching the guard of his Morningstar. He peered off in the same direction as Ramses, squinting in the darkness. The underbrush was thinner in that spot and Nathanial could see a high, flat hillock just through the first line of branches and a narrow deer trail cutting through the scrub.

"A campsite," Ramses replied, and dismounted. Whisper opened her mouth to protest, but to her dismay a long-suppressed yawn swallowed her words. She was soon left on the path alone and yet still hesitated before sliding off her horse and following the others. There was halfhearted talk of a campfire and setting a watch order, which drifted into silence as sleep claimed them all.

They awoke without warning to the sound of a violent struggle. Ramses was the first to react, but even he was delayed while he disentangled himself from his bedroll. In the moment it took him to gain his feet, the battle was over. Whisper had a dark-haired man pinned with his face to the ground and one arm twisted firmly up to his shoulder blade. He did not make a noise but a faint grimace betrayed his discomfort. Sir reached into his bag with one hand while rubbing sleep from his eyes. He pulled out a sunrod and cracked it, leaving a white spot floating in their vision from the flash. Blinking furiously, Ramses drew his sword and held the point to the man's throat.

"Who are you, and what is your purpose here?"

The man's eyes rolled as far as they could towards Whisper, who ground her knee into the small of his back and scowled impatiently.

"You were asked a question! Answer him!"

The man closed his eyes as if some internal pain was greater than the physical.

"Your father's orders forbid me to answer to a stranger, Highness."

The camp froze for a skipped heartbeat, except for Whisper's ragged breathing.

"HOYniss?" chortled Sir. "Whispayahoyniss..."

"My father sent you?" she demanded of her captor.

The man only nodded in reply.

"What...." she paused. "You are a servant of the House, correct? Which means you answer to my orders as well."

There was another nod, without hesitation.

"What were your orders from my father, I demand you tell _me_."

"You were to be found and brought back to the palace."

"And if I would not?"

"To kill you, and anyone with you."

A small, frightened squeak emerged from Leshar, and he backed away from the pair glancing nervously at his brightly colored donkey. A wolfish grin began to spread across the face of Sir William, and he turned his grip on the axe he carried.

"Hoy...yukinbloo'yelltroyit..."

Nathanial watched the entire scene as if not entirely there. The harsh alchemical white light from the sunrod threw everything into stark relief. Whisper and Ramses cast the shadows of giants onto the trees, and the exaggerated detail of their faces made them appear like cheap illusions cast at a country fair. Whisper's frown was made more sinister by the shadowed furrows in her forehead. She seemed to consider her options carefully before she continued to question her prisoner.

"If I order you to leave this place and not return to the palace, and not report my presence to anyone, will you obey?"

"You cannot counter the orders of your father, Highness. It would be treason for me to obey."

She locked her eyes on the back of his skull as if to physically will his mind to change. She tightened her hold to the very edge of snapping the bones in his wrist and arm, but received no reaction beyond a sharp intake of breath.

"So you are telling me," she continued in a low voice, "that I can give you no order or offer that would keep you from betraying me to my father, or attempting to kidnap or kill me in the future?"

"That is correct, Your Highness."

Whisper's own eyes closed and she shook her head wearily.

"Then I order you to die."

There was the briefest of hesitations before the man answered, and it was in a voice so calm that Nathanial shuddered. He sent a prayer up to whoever might listen in an attempt to avert this course of events. While a part of him wanted to jump forward and intervene, he felt rooted to the spot and helpless to do so.

"As you so order, Your Highness."

"Whisper.." Leto began, stepping forward with a quelling hand. But she did not even notice he'd spoken. She released her prisoners' hands and gripped both sides of his head. Both Ramses and Leto realized her intentions too late and leapt forward as she twisted the head sharply to one side.

"No!" they both shouted in close to unison. Ramses shoved Whisper to one side and sent her sprawling onto the forest floor. He searched frantically for a pulse on the twisted neck of her attacker but found none. His expression was grave and reproachful when he turned to face Whisper.

"He's dead."

Leto turned aside, shaking his head. Nathanial closed his eyes against the serene stare and half-smile directed at him from an unnatural angle. He tried to calm the queasiness that had risen with the wet cracking of the assassin's spine.

"I hope so." Whisper replied with some sadness, "I hope it was quick. The man was a loyal servant of my father's and I would not want him to suffer."

Ramses looked at her unbelievingly.

"But he was helpless! He was fully pinned to the ground. He could not escape or even try to harm you. He was cooperating with our questions. You have no right to take his life!"

Whisper's melancholy apparently had its limits, for Ramses had crossed them. She rose from her position on the ground to stare him defiantly in the face.

"What would you have me do Ramses? Spend every minute of the rest of my life waking in the middle of the night with a dagger at my throat? My father's assassins are loyal even unto death. Nothing would have kept this one from hunting me, or reporting my presence to others who would then hunt me. Is that what you want?"

Ramses' tone was as scathing as her's; he was appalled by the scene he'd just witnessed.

"We could have left him somewhere, in jail or tied up, and disappeared to where he could not track us. There is ALWAYS another alternative!"

Her outrage brought her voice to a near-shriek.

"Disappeared!? _Disappeared _with a six foot man in plate-mail and a great helm? DISAPPEAR, with THAT THING following us!?"

She pointed an accusing finger at Leshar, who's bedroll even glowed softly in the darkness, pulsating with colors that made one slightly nauseous if watched too long. Leshar drew himself up haughtily.

"Well pardon me, _Your Highness_, for having more style and femininity in my smallest toe than you hold in your entire muscle-bound body."

He turned on one slippered heel and lay down on his bedroll with his back to the others in the camp. His monkey chirped and peeked a sleepy head from inside the donkey's saddlebag before settling back to sleep. Whisper was left nearly panting with outrage, casting her eye around the camp for some outlet to her frustration. Leto and Nathanial nearly collided in diving for their perspective bedrolls, feigning sleep within seconds.

Ramses just shook his head in disgust. He knelt by the body of the assassin and lifted it gently to his shoulders. He straightened and moved with a dignified tread into the woods without a second glance at Whisper. She opened her mouth several times as if to call out for him to wait, but finally let out her breath in a frustrated sigh. She pulled a shovel from the gear on Ramses' horse and trudged after him with her head down.

It was some time before they returned; bringing Nathanial abruptly back from the edge of sleep. He heard low voices and opened his eyes in time to see them both strolling into the camp, deep in discussion. They sat at the base of a tree to continue it, and after time Nathanial's eyelids began to droop again. A sharp pain in his side reminded him of a tree root digging into his ribs, but he waited to turn over until the other two seemed well-engrossed in conversation. When he finally wiggled into a more comfortable position, he caught sight of Leshar's open eyes staring at Ramses and Whisper. The expression on his face was difficult to make out, but when he noticed Nathanial watching him in return he snapped his eyes shut and pretended sleep. Some warning sounded in the back of his mind, but he could not pin it down past a vague uneasiness over Leshar's expression. He was still attempting to analyze it when sleep caught him by surprise.

He was less troubled when he awoke to the gut-wrenching growl of his stomach. The smell of frying venison fat was filling his head and reminding his body that he had definitely skipped dinner. He joined the others huddled around the fire in the dawn chill and gratefully accepted his share of the crisped slices of meat. He settled on a log to chew, and noticed an absence.

"Where's Whisper?"

"Watering the bushes I believe." Leto said with his usual cheerful indelicacy. Ramses shot Leto a quelling look which did not miss Leshar's attention. When Whisper made her appearance Leshar was quick on the offensive.

"Good morning _Your Highness_...Sleep well on the ground with the rest of us commoners?"

His tone was dripping with acid despite the serene smile on his face, and even Sir William gave him a puzzled look for his sudden ! Whispasaprincess!"

Whisper's look was closer to pleading than rage.

"_Please_ don't call me that, either one of you. You mustn't mention it at all! If the wrong person overheard you..."

Leshar looked pointedly around the woods to emphasize their distance from civilization.

"Very well spoken _Your Highness_, unfortunately we're not in your country and are not required to follow your orders. Considering the orders I've seen you give it's a wonder anyone's left alive in your country."

Whisper flushed an angry shade of red but Ramses intervened before she could actually attack the wizard.

"Leshar! She's made a polite request that in no way hurts you to grant."

Leshar turned petulant eyes to Ramses that softened eagerly under his stern gaze.

"Of course Ramses, how very good of you to so gently remind me of my manners..."

Leto rose abruptly from his seat by Nathanial and strode off. Nathanial could hear the sound of suppressed laughter disguised in coughing. Ramses turned a puzzled stare to Leto's back.

"Leto! Are you all right?"

The monk flapped one hand in assurance that he was fine, and struggled to regain control. Nathanial gulped down the remainder of his breakfast, wiped his plate out and hurried to pack. Soon Leto's "coughing" fits of laughter became somewhat contagious after the exhausting night they'd had, and Nathanial could not meet his eye without them both suppressing fits.

"What on earth is wrong with you two?" Whisper snapped as they rode further into the woods.

"Nothing," the two called out in chorus, both entirely truthful. They looked at each other in surprise before dissolving into laughter. She looked back and forth at them, frowning, before spurring her horse ahead in a huff.


	8. Fire From the Sky

_Author's Note: Welcome new readers, its always good to hear feedback! Your comments have helped me revise a bit, and the previous chapters have been somewhat altered. Not significantly, but I've evened out the gaps in the preludes, and tightened some holes in the storyline. I've also corrected some spelling and grammar, but if you see any gross discrepancies I'd welcome revisions. (note to players in this game: revisions do NOT mean "hey my character wasn't that much of a pansy and/or stuck-up snark. Some things have to be adjusted for the benefit of the story, but if you ask around you might find that despite your intentions, your PC was, in fact, a pansy and/or snark) :-)_

_Constant disclaimer: Sir's rampant homophobia has been toned down dramatically from how it was originally played, the reason being that some things are funnier coming from a large grinning man with a Hello Kitty backpack than they are in print. _

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 8 – Fire From the Sky**

_When the trail was less than a week old, he became less dependent on others' sightings, and more dependent on the magical brooch that allowed him to track members of his species. The steps were faint, but he could still make them out in the dust of the road, more clearly when he left the road to camp. . By now he was close to scenting the boy on the wind itself, and continued along the trail as fast as his horse could carry him. _

_He crested the hills over a nameless town and surveyed the devastation impassively. The burned out husks of houses and temples were all that remained in large portions of the city. He followed the trail to the __Inn__, but the wary looks people gave him as he passed were enough to tell him that talk here would be expensive. Nathanial's footsteps ended and much fresher tracks began, this time on horseback. Several others rode alongside him, and hoping his brother had not fallen into bad company he bypassed the __Inn__ and hastened along the trail._

The trees on either side closed in as they rode, until they were threading in between the trunks on the last faint suspicion of a path. Leshar squealed hysterically as he rode into another spider web. The web wrapped itself across his face, clinging to his hair and clothing.

"Ramses! Is this even a road? Why don't we turn back?"

Ramses reined in his horse and turned to look back at him.

"It was a road once. And it would not have been built if it did not lead somewhere. We're much less likely to be found by Khe...the people hunting Whisper in the wilderness than we are in a town. Besides," he added before Leshar could pick up on the substitution, "you can see a break in the trees ahead."

They could see the sunlight streaming through the canopy at a distance, beckoning them from the gloom. When they finally stepped into the open they were confronted with a sheer cliff face only yards from the edge of the woods.

_"Not a cliff, a wall!"_ Nathanial thought to himself as his eyes picked out the faint outline of mortar lines beneath the moss. The wall loomed twenty feet or more into the sky, with a slight concavity that made it seem to threaten anyone approaching. Ramses dismounted when they reached it and began tugging gently at the vegetation clinging to the rock. He cleared enough to trace a block of cut stone, still solid despite the crumbling mortar holding it in place. He stepped back and surveyed the height and breadth of it.

"Do you think someone should try to climb it?" Leshar asked with a deferential sweetness.

Ramses nodded thoughtfully and all eyes turned to Leto, who took a moment to notice. He glanced around warily at everyone's expectant faces.

"What, me?"

He did find cracks in the mortar to fit his slender fingers and toes. He tied his boots together by the laces and tossed them to Nathanial before making his way steadily up the stonework. Nathanial watched his progress with some concern, but Leto climbed like a determined spider and made it look almost easy. His foot did finally slip as his fingers wrapped over the upper edge of the wall, and Whisper gave a hissing intake of breath as the monk's legs dangled freely above their heads. His body disappeared inch by inch over the top as he hauled himself up by his fingertips. Only when he was safely up did Nathanial finally blink. The party breathed easier and waited for word from the top. When it didn't come immediately Ramses grew impatient and shouted up to Leto.

"Well?"

An outraged head popped into view over the edge.

"Can't a man catch his breath for two seconds?"

Ramses simply stared impatiently upwards, as if he could grow wings on the strength of sheer will. Leto's head disappeared again, but the noise of his grumbling reached them on the ground.

There were several anxious moments of silence before the party grew impatient, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the monk. Nathanial nearly jumped out of his skin when a shriek tore the silence of the landscape, startling flocks of birds into the air in black clouds. A dark shadow seemed to leap down among them from the top of the wall where Leto had been only moments before. It moved so quickly that only when it struck earth did it seem anything more than a trick of the light. The figure landed in a crouch near Whisper's horse, which panicked and reared under her. She managed to keep to the saddle but her horse bolted nearly twenty feet along the wall before she could bring it back under control. Behind her, Leto straightened from his crouch with a grin struggling to conquer his face. He leaned casually against a tree and made a show of examining his fingernails for dirt.

"That's an excitable critter you've got there, Whisper. You know, if you can't keep it under control you might consider walking."

Whisper flushed with rage and drew her sword. She spurred her horse directly at Leto with murder flashing in her eyes. Ramses leaned out of the saddle as she passed and deftly caught her horse's reins, pulling them both to a halt. Whisper turned her glare onto Ramses, who was already directing a stern tirade at Leto.

"That was _entirely_ uncalled for, and dangerous besides. Either of you could have been hurt."

Leto seemed to consider his words seriously for a moment, and then nodded gravely.

"You're right. Its unfortunate that it was funny enough to justify such risks, isn't it?"

The sound that escaped from Whisper's throat was very nearly a growl. Ramses took a tighter hold on her reins; exasperation showed in every line of his face.

"Leto, just apologize so that we can all be on our way. At this rate, we don't need anyone after us; we're already at each others' throats all the time, doing their work for them."

The monk shrugged philosophically and a wicked gleam entered his eye as he stepped up to Whisper. He gave a sweeping, courtly bow with as many absurd flourishes as he could muster.

"M'lady, please accept my most humble apologies for the cruel trick I played, and for any negative impact it may have had on your delicate sensibilities."

If she had offered her hand it would have been loudly and wetly kissed, but the thought never crossed her mind. She knew she was being mocked but also that she couldn't object to an apology without looking the fool. She gave a curt nod of acceptance with pursed lips and clenched teeth, not trusting herself to speak.

Ramses studied her face for a moment before cautiously releasing her horse's reins.

"All right then, what did you see up there Leto?"

"Well it's hard to believe out here in all this nothing, but there's a castle beyond this wall. Rather a large one at that."

"Is there a way in?"

"No Ramses, they built a huge castle in the middle of nowhere without a way in."

Ramses looked surprised, and stared appraisingly at the top of the wall.

"Well we could tether the horses and climb, but I don't like to leave the horses unguarded."

Leto arched one eyebrow at Ramses, and then groaned dramatically.

"What is it about a Paladin that just sucks the fun right out of sarcasm? The gate is around on the east wall."

Ramses gave him a level stare, and for a moment Nathanial caught the faintest gleam of humor lurking about his eyes. He suddenly wondered if Ramses wasn't baiting the odd little monk by deliberately misconstruing his jokes.

"Lead on then, Leto."

Whisper managed to avoid both Leto and Leshar by straying just far enough behind the party to discourage conversation. They all picked their way carefully along between the forest and the wall, stumbling through the heavy brush and over the broken bits of masonry that may once have been a road. The castle gate could only be distinguished from the rest of the wall by its height, towering nearly thirty feet above the top of the perimeter wall. It took Sir, Ramses and Whisper nearly an hour to cut a path through the tangled mass of vines that had grown undisturbed for so long into and over the entryway. Muttered curses split the air as the fibrous plants dulled their blades and covered them with impossibly sticky sap. Nathanial felt somewhat guilty at his inability to help, but after watching Whisper drop back for a breather covered in sweat, scratches and congealing sap, he quietly thanked the stars that he'd never purchased a sword. At least they no longer had to listen to Leshar's complaints of boredom; Whisper's half-threatening offer to put him to work on the vines silenced him as if by magic. Sir was the one who broke through first, and his victory whoop brought them all to their feet in alarm with half-drawn weapons.

"This place was well built," Ramses said approvingly as they rode slowly through the ancient courtyard. "It could be restored with time and effort."

"Why would anyone want to?" asked Whisper with an eyebrow arching further as they past the remains of a building with a lone wall tentatively clinging to the old foundations.

"Why would they not? A stronghold of this size and quality would more than pay for its reconstruction."

He had a proprietary gleam in his eye, and as he looked around him his mind was busy setting stone and mortar, thatching rooftops, and watching the ghosts of future generations make themselves at home.

"Oi!" called Sir, "lewkit, s'atuhtempool?"

Ramses was yanked back to the present as he looked to where Sir's outstretched finger pointed. He sucked in his breath and looked as if his excitement would suddenly burst from his eyes. A small chapel sat a short ways from the other buildings, remarkably preserved. The wooden roof had long rotted down to the rafters, but the intricate stained glass portraits of the windows were still intact and recognizable as corollaries to the modern Saints of the Kaldeshian religion. Ramses dismounted quickly with a whispered invocation to Kalidine. He looped his horse's reins over the narrow trunk of a fallen tree and strode up the temple steps. Within moments, the others heard the sound of prayer from inside.

"Well then," Leto grunted as he found a soft patch of grass in the sun, "We may as well have a sit then. I doubt we'll see him before an hour's up."

With great satisfaction the monk selected a greet shoot from a scattering of wild barley, plucked it from the ground and stuck it between his front teeth. He pulled his headband down over his eyes and lay back on the grass with every sign of blissful luxury.

"An _hour!_?" exclaimed Whisper, outraged, "we're supposed to sit around out here for an hour while he prays?"

Leto simply nodded. Whisper dismounted and began to pace with great agitation. She shot a dirty look in the direction of the temple each time she passed, and they could hear baleful mutterings under her breath. Nathanial took a few moments to stretch his legs after the long ride before relaxing near Leto. The monk cracked one eye open and frowned in Whisper's direction.

"It's a good thing I can relax anywhere, her pacing's enough to drive anyone batty."

His frown turned to a beatific smile and Nathanial cocked his head to see where he was looking. Hooch had decided to investigate Whisper's strange actions, and was pacing joyfully along two steps behind her. She hadn't seen him yet, and the sight of her glowering agitation and Hooch's mad, empty headed joy stalking her steps was enough to make Nathanial snort with laughter before he could suppress it. Leto elbowed him in a hint to assume a neutral expression before she turned back towards them, but he was a moment too late. Nathanial's laughter bubbled up against his every force of will under her stern gaze. But the crash of broken glass came in time to keep her from speaking.

Nathanial and Leto sat up in time to see Sir William carefully weigh another stone from the ground. One of the intricate glass windows was in pieces, and shouts of outrage came clearly from inside. Sir William wound up and threw a second stone. It took the head of a smiling saint neatly from his shoulders in the second window. They all heard a gargling cry from within the building and Ramses appeared like a wraith in the doorway, trembling with rage. He lifted his sword to point at Sir William.

"Halt this sacrilege!" He nearly shrieked.

"Wyazdatay? Whatchoogoin'tadootastoopme?"

Ramses eyes narrowed.

"Not I, but may Kalidine himself strike you down if you throw one more rock at this temple!"

"Cor! YewpahnzeehooleyBuouy,tinkyoorgudkin'urtme."

He selected another prime throwing rock, nicely rounded against his palm. He considered the remaining windows carefully. St. Trouah was the obvious choice, being the god of mercy, forgiveness, and other pacifist traits despised by Sir William. He took careful aim.

"Last warning Merriweather!" Ramses called in an icy tone from the doorway, gripping his sword.

Sir William paused with his arm back to throw and looked at Ramses. With a snort of dismissal he wound up and fired. Discordant tones of broken glass echoed in the silence between them. Nathanial wondered for a moment if his ears were ringing when the sound did not stop. A single discordant note resolved into an unearthly chord, and a soft glow lit the interior of the temple. Sir peered curiously at it and took a step closer to the windows he'd broken.

"Wot da...."

He was interrupted by an explosion of glass as the stone he'd just thrown shot back through the window and headed straight for him. Perhaps it was instinct that caused him to put his hand out to catch it; certainly if he'd know the speed the stone was traveling he would have jumped in the other direction. The stone, slightly smoking, fell to the lawn some distance away and Sir William was left with a neatly bored hole through the center of his palm. He regarded it in silent shock for the span of several heartbeats before the wound began to trickle, and then spurt.

"Foooooook!" Sir screamed, waving his hand wildly in the air and sending a spray of bright arterial blood over the others. Leshar shrieked in protest as his robe became spattered with it and began berating Sir with insults and curses. Leto and Nathanial exchanged glances and inched further away from the scene, in case the first two stones thrown were forthcoming as well. Whisper moved in quickly towards Sir, who continued to bellow and evade Whisper's attempts to get a hold on his hand. Ramses surveyed the scene smugly, and with what may have been a brief flicker of enjoyment before he began walking towards Sir, removing his gauntlets as he walked.

"Hold _still_ you silly man," shouted Whisper, "I can't stop the bleeding with you waving it around!"

Ramses stepped up behind them and caught Sir neatly by the wrist of the injured hand. The look on his face was nearly one of grim satisfaction when he gripped the wounded hand as if in greeting. Sir made a sound very much like "Gawruk" as Ramses squeezed gently and began muttering. A soft glow encompassed the clasped hands, and when Ramses pulled his away, the bleeding had stopped.

Sir looked suspiciously at Ramses before attempting to flex the hand. There had been too much missing flesh to heal completely and a small gap remained. The fingers moved slowly and stiffly, and the palm would no longer fold completely. He examined it in disbelief and thrust it under Ramses' nose as if it were a broken toy.

"Wot de 'ell du'ah dew _now?" _he demanded in outrage, "dewsumptin! It won'werk!"

"I'm sorry," replied Ramses, and managed to actually look as if he were, "I've done all I can do. If Kalidine wished it to be differently, he would not have returned the stone to you in the first place. However..."

Ramses pulled his gauntlets from his belt and looked at them reluctantly.

"These are magically enchanted to allow you some dexterity in battle. Until we can find a better solution, they are yours. Hopefully they will help to even out your newfound shortcomings."

"What about _this!?"_ shrieked a voice behind them. "Do you have _any_ idea how hard it is to remove blood from this fabric!?"

Nathanial squinted at Leshar.

"How do you even know there IS blood on the fabric, it all blends in anyhow, one more color won't make a difference."

Leshar turned his murderous glare from Sir William to Nathanial.

"How dare you, of course it makes a difference! Every color on this robe is carefully calibrated against the colors beside it. This streak of nastiness throws off the _entire scheme!_"

Leto was standing close enough that only Boy heard his next comment.

"So it's gone from being awful to _bloody_ awful. Not much of a leap."

Nathanial snorted despite himself. He managed to recover a straight face, but not before Leshar's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Are you mocking me, boy?"

All impetus to laugh left him at the venomous disdain Leshar put into the word "boy" and Nathanial drew himself up.

"My name, _Leshar_, is Nathanial."

Leshar smiled at the success of his barb, and set to dig it deeper.

"Of course it is, _Boy_. How silly of me to forget."

Nathanial felt a dark rage rise inside him and reached for his Morningstar. He felt a stirring at the back of his mind. Ramses stepped between them.

"There's no point to this bickering. Can we just keep moving? We can camp inside the main fortress, it seems the sturdiest building left, and will keep the rain and dew from us."

"Of course Ramses," Leshar purred in his most amiable tone without removing his dark gaze from Nathanial, "I'm _dying_ to continue our exploration of this fascinating place!"

His eyes were not quite sane, but the venom in them was obvious. Nathanial took it as the warning it was and despite his resolve not to look away first, a shiver crept up his spine. The corners of Leshar's mouth twitched briefly upward, and though Leshar had been the first to break the gaze Nathanial still felt as if he'd lost the brief standoff.


	9. Funeral Fire

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 9: Funeral Fire**

_"Was I really that naive? Look at us! Traipsing off to Gods knew where, more concerned about a wizard than the danger we were facing. How in the hells did we live as long as we did!?"_

_"Pure luck, as much as I hate to admit it, does sometimes play as big a role as the Gods do in such circumstances. One wrong move at any one of a hundred points and you would be nothing more than one more unfulfilled destiny consumed by worms. I don't think any mortal, perhaps any God has an idea of how many worlds have been lost, or saved by a chance misstep too near the abyss."_

_"But look at us, we were so...young, almost helpless then."_

_"Old enough to attempt murder, young enough to fail at it."_

_"That...Do we have to bring that up? It wasn't a proud moment for me."_

_"What good would it do to weigh your proud moments if not against those you'd rather forget? Peace... there is time yet. For there to be murder, there must first be hate."_

* * *

The main keep was still open to the elements, with the echo of dripping water reflecting from some place deep in the corridors. The slightest breeze sent up a whistling moan while weaving through open hallways and window frames, as if stirring the restless spirits of the dead in its passing. Ramses nodded in some satisfaction, impervious to the shivers that crept up the spines of the others.

"We can at least leave the horses here, the walls look sturdy enough. We should try to find the source of that dripping, it may be drinkable water."

His companions looked dubiously from the bare tops of the ancient walls to the small piles of broken stone that had crumbled from them throughout the years. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that they'd rather have rain than rock falling on their heads in the night, and they settled their horses and equipment near the center of the old hall. A few stunted, twisted trees had sprouted in the windblown dirt, and sent roots seeking moisture through tiny cracks in the mortar. Nathanial tested their hold, and found they would serve better than he'd thought for a tether line.

As he worked to settle the horses, Nathanial's eyes were drawn more and more to Leto's curious behavior. With an almost forgotten wisp of grass in his teeth and a distant expression in his eyes, he crept carefully around to each doorway leading from the room and simply stood for several minutes. When Ramses cleared his throat enquiringly behind him Leto raised an abrupt finger in a demand for silence. The Paladin looked somewhat affronted, but also curious. After a tense moment Leto nodded his head in satisfaction and strode back to the center of the room. With a final turn towards each doorway he paused and flicked the blade of grass towards the northernmost portal.

"I believe the water is that way, at least as far as I can tell."

Nathanial strained his ears and held his breath to listen. He could hear a minute difference in the volume of the drip from the northern doorway, so slight that he was impressed that Leto could catch it at all. His own hearing was, as far as he could tell, unusually keen. If Leto wasn't simply guessing, his must be as good or better.

"He's right, it's that way, but it's a long way off," Nathanial reported.

Ramses nodded and began walking in that direction after tying a pair of empty waterskins to his belt. Nathanial sighed and activated another alchemical light, averting his eyes this time from the flash. He retrieved a length of rope from his saddle, a package of rations and his own empty waterskins before following the others through the doorway.

A shiver went up Nathanial's spine and raised the hairs on the back of his neck at the eerie silence that hung almost physically in the air. He had taken no more than a dozen steps into the room when he felt a sudden, hysterical urge to laugh and dispel the rising tension. He couldn't comprehend the gut feeling of danger when there was no possible source, especially when a quick glance at the others showed only curiosity or disgust over the contents of the room. The battle between instinct and rationality inside him caused him to break out in a light sweat as his heart began pounding hard enough to feel in his eardrums. He saw Whisper give him a pitying glance out of the corner of her eye and knew she thought he was afraid. How could he explain to her the lurching urge to flee, screaming from this place, when from all appearances the room had lain quiet for centuries? He couldn't, and while every step into that room became an effort of willpower, he knew in his mind that he could never run from this room and still be able to look the others in the eye if they ever met again.

In the trembling glow from the alchemist light they could see dozens of broken skeletons littering the floor. Ancient remains of clothing and rusted weapons were scattered amongst them as if all had been tossed haphazardly into the room for disposal. Nathanial drew in his breath and nearly gagged at the metallic rotting odor that filled the air. Even Ramses was taken aback when his foot barely struck an ancient skull, which promptly crumbled to a thick wet ash. Perhaps some of the nervousness that consumed Nathanial had been felt by the Paladin, for he drew his sword as a precaution and leaned down over the crumbled skeleton to examine it. He reached out to carefully pull loose a scrap of cloth still bearing part of an insignia, but the ancient fabric separated into fibrous dust at his touch.

"Curious," he murmured, "how did they retain their shape for this long? Surely wild animals would have disturbed them, or the wind..."

He looked up, puzzled, and his thoughts were nearly echoed by Leto.

"What wind?"

Nathanial felt somewhat better at having one of the sources of tension identified. There was no air moving in the room, not even from the open doorway they had entered from. Their breath seemed even to stop inches from their open mouths. Nathanial fumbled for his Morningstar and moved the alchemist light to his right hand. It was shaking so badly that the light jumped around them in an eerie impression of a dancing white fire. Whisper strode over to Nathanial in disgust.

"Give me that!" she ordered, "and stop giving yourself the willees! You're practically jumping at shadows."

Leshar was affecting a pose of boredom, though Nathanial had seen his eyes flicker into the corners of the room in search of danger when he thought he was unobserved.

"Yes Boy, whatever is wrong? One would think you'd never seen a dead body before."

Nathanial stared at him in shock, feeling the blood drain from his face. His rising caution screamed to him, _"He knows! He knows! By the Gods how does he know!? _It was by every drop of strength in his mind that he wrenched control from his instinct to flee. _"He can't possibly know, it is your paranoia talking, he's fishing for weaknesses in you."_

_"fey-child, murderer, devil spawn..." _The paranoia whispered back to him. _"Stupid! He met you in a bar littered with corpses," _retorted the voice of reason in his mind. At this assertation of the obvious, the paranoia retreated to a controllable distance. He relaxed ever so slightly and swept the room with a more objective eye. It was only a slight movement beyond Leshar that drew his eyes in time to shout a warning.

"Ramses! Behind you!"

A rusted longsword had levitated quietly from the stone floor as they were talking, and positioned itself to strike the Paladin as he knelt beside the skeleton. Ramses turned swiftly on one knee and blocked the attack with his own sword.

The party looked around the room in dazed surprise as more weapons floated up from the floor. They encircled the party as if wielded by invisible men, and when they attacked they moved with an uncanny speed and vicious force. Ramses soon became hard pressed to fight off the disembodied longsword, but Nathanial's eyes were on a rusted, pitted shortsword advancing in his direction. He crossed the alchemist light and the sword in front of him to block the first blow, but as he responded by swinging just behind the sword to strike its unseen wielder, his Morningstar met only air. The unexpected lack of impact sent his blow wide and he reeled, losing his footing on the shifting layer of metal and bones on the floor. As he stumbled and fell onto his hands and knees, his Morningstar flew from his sweaty grip and landed nearly ten feet away. The alchemist light bounced heavily on the ground and rolled away to connect with a skeleton. He saw the skull crumble, covering the light with a layer of ash and plunging the room into near-darkness. He heard cries of dismay from his friends as they battled.

_"Damn, Damn, Damn, Damn,"_ he cursed under his breath as he tried to scramble towards his weapon. He felt a heavy blow across his shoulder as his armor deflected the cut. The sword felt as if it was wielded by a giant and Nathanial's arms buckled beneath the weight. Calling upon the tricks he'd learned in his youth, he did not lock his arms to resist the sudden weight. Instead he rolled, using the force of the blow as momentum. When he came up awkwardly from the roll into a badly balanced half-crouch, he spied his Morningstar within an arm's length. He reached out for his weapon with obvious relief, but it skittered out from under his hand as if kicked. He overbalanced in his attempt to catch it, and sprawled on the floor once more. Scrambling desperately to his feet, he watched in horror and confusion as his own Morningstar began to rise from the ground in front of him.

He circled to keep both weapons in sight, risking an occasional glance at the floor for anything he could use in defense. His eyes had adjusted quickly to the loss of light. His mind leapt from option to option, sure of some way to survive, despite being weaponless and outnumbered. His eyes flickered briefly towards the ground and arrested on the remains of an iron halberd near his feet. With one eye on the floating weapons surrounding him he took a deep breath and dove for the halberd, knowing as he did so that he'd misjudged his chances. There was a terrible blow as the sword buried a quarter of its blade in his midsection with a single, deadly thrust. He was doubled over by the force of the impact, and felt his own flesh tear as the jagged, rusted steel imbedded itself inside him. He tried to ignore the numbing sensation that quickly spread from the wound to his extremities, and concentrated every effort on closing his fingers around the halberd. He succeeded in getting it, but raised his eyes only in time to see his own Morningstar swinging towards his face. He flung one arm up as if to try and deflect it, but his last impression before it struck him was of pressure in his mind and a flash of white light.

* * *

When he awoke, he was looking at a blue sky. Leshar was leaning over him with an empty potion vial and wearing an expression of mocking triumph. Nathanial groaned and struggled to sit up, rubbing the remains of a bruise on his temple. For a moment he could not pinpoint why his head felt so cold, then he suddenly missed the presence of his hat. His eyes snapped upwards and saw it twirling slowly on one of Leshar's fingers.

"Sooo, Boy. All this time, and you turn out to be a mage. Funny how you never used your magic to help your companions isn't it. I wonder if they even know..."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Nathanial answered with a bad stab at casualness. He snatched the hat from Leshar and jammed it down over his ears, furious that Leshar now had something with which to control him.

"Why Boy, I'm talking about that lightning bolt you shot off before you dropped. Not a very impressive one of course, but it showed much more magical aptitude than you've shown before. Is it a _racial_ trait of some kind?"

His voice slowed to a honey-sweetness, but Nathanial could hear the venom beneath the words. He could tell Leshar was enjoying this game of torture. Beneath the smug smile he wore what Nathanial called the "freak" look. He had seen the look on the face of everyone who'd ever witnessed the strange events that happened around him. That look awoke the paranoia within him to whisper _"fey-child, murderer, devil spawn.."_ and triggered a hot, helpless rage inside Nathanial. He knew Leshar would tell the others, and why should they react any differently? He knew how hard it would be to prove himself to those who thought he was a demon freak. Brand had been the only one who had let him.

"Soo," continued Leshar with a look of feral satisfaction on his face, "Did you get those ears from your mother or father? Or was it both? I must admit, I've never seen anything quite so...different. Are you part fey?"

_"fey-child, murderer, devil spawn..." _the mantra continued in his mind, causing a coil of shame, fear and hatred to grow in his stomach. He clenched his fists and jaw, using every effort of will not to swing on Leshar. He knew that Leshar would twist it against him somehow if he did. It was becoming almost unbearable to resist when he was saved by Sir.

"WootyewdewinBuouy? Ha'ntyewgotenoffsleepyet? Lazeesonfabeech."

Sir tossed Nathanial's Morningstar to him, without caring if he was ready to catch it or not. Nathanial managed to catch it, but not very gracefully. Sir snorted from the doorway.

"DehyegoBuouy. Kipa'oldofeetdistyme."

Nathanial shook his head in bewilderment, his ears still ringing slightly.

"Say that again, Sir? I didn't catch it."

Sir rolled his eyes and spoke more slowly.

"Din-let-go-av-yer-cloob-when-yer-fightin...yadeefgit."

Nathanial's face reddened and he hastened to stand up and straighten his armor.

"It isn't like I did it on _purpose_ Sir, it was an accident."

"Then per_haps_, Nathanial," purred Leshar, "You'd better pay more attention to what you're doing. Accidents can happen when you're careless."

Nathanial turned to Leshar with flashing eyes. The wizard's last sentence had a certain intonation that suggested a threat.

"Ahshettup," interrupted Sir with obvious scorn, "wotdeyeknowabootit, yepanzeearsefiggit?"

Leshar's face darkened with rage. His hand went to his spell component pouch and gripped it before he asserted control. Nathanial felt a twinge of disappointment; He was fairly certain that Sir could tear Leshar in two pieces if he was driven to do so.

"Do not underestimate me, Merriweather," Leshar said with a false note of polite calm, "there is an excellent chance of you regretting it."

"Bah!" Sir responded in a bark of laughter. He managed to put enough scorn and ridicule into the one syllable to silence Leshar. "C'monBuouy."

Nathanial dogged Sir's steps from the room, hiding a secret grin.

They joined the others in the room of skeletons, and Nathanial noticed that they actually seemed relieved that he was alive. It was a double-edged happiness to him after Leshar's implied threat to reveal his secret, but he forced himself to simply enjoy their friendship while it lasted. They spoke only in whispers, and proceeded towards the opening of the next room with great caution and raised weapons. Ramses was in the lead, but stopped abruptly when the sound of a male voice, heavy with the brogue of Thardunn, reached their ears from the next room.

"Sooo, I steal these bits o'metal, from these folks, and y'ell show me ta way out then?"

"That's right. I'm afraid we're trapped in here until we find them. They're keys that open the exit from this dungeon."

The second voice was female, and slightly breathless.

"Awl roight, then. Where're these folk hidin' at."

"They'll come through here, they have to in order to get out. We must wait in hiding and be ready. They should reach us within a day or so."

Ramses made a motion with his hand for everyone to stay quiet, and crept forward. He made it nearly to the door before he accidentally kicked a piece of metal hiding beneath the dust of skeletons. A scraping noise echoed through the room and Ramses froze. If their attackers were still waiting in the other room they could not have missed the noise.

"What was that?" the female voice whispered sharply. Ramses motioned for all to be ready and called out.

"Show yourselves."

There was a brief moment of silence, and a woman stepped into the doorway. She wore a dress in shades of red and orange that called to mind the markings of a venomous spider. Beside her was a Halfling in well-maintained blackened leather armor. He made no sound as he moved with her into the room. The woman seemed unafraid of their situation and spoke to Ramses.

"You're early; I wasn't expecting you for another day."

"So we heard."

Her smile faltered somewhat and she scanned the party dismissively.

"So you are the ones who destroyed my pets in Whitefall. Monk still has an unusual and tragic preference for underdogs I see. Do you carry the keys?"

"Who are you?" demanded Whisper haughtily, "and what business is it of yours what I carry?"

Nathanial blurted out his first suspicion before he could help himself.

"Khezrial."

The woman gave him a glittering malicious smile that stirred an old forgotten memory.

"No, child. But it was an intelligent guess. I am here to retrieve items stolen from her. You carry those items, I believe."

"Why Nathanial," chimed in Leshar, in a voice so sweet it could cut glass, "if you've stolen something, you must of course return it."

"Now is not the time for this, Leshar." Nathanial whispered from the corner of his mouth. Then "Hold it!" as he spied the Halfling making his way to the back of the company. The Halfling froze, looking irritated.

"Roight then, I kin see you all have some sort'o history with each other, that's lovely. But I'd like to get out of this place. So if you could just point me at the exit I'll be on me'way, and take me'chances on the locks."

"There are no locks," said Ramses in confusion, "you go through that door, turn the corner, and you're out."

The Halfling's face went through a metamorphosis, beginning at skepticism and ending in rage.

"Ye lyin' HOOR!" he shouted at the woman, "ye told me we were trapped!"

She waved him away as if he were a buzzing fly.

"Dearest Paladin," she said to Ramses, "I can see we will not be reaching an amicable arrangement as far as those keys are concerned..." She paused and waited for his ready nod. "Then I shall be forced to take more drastic measures. I do hate to waste my pets, but you have left me little choice. Farewell then, I'm quite sure we will meet again."

"Madam I cannot allow you to leave," Ramses said in an official tone. "I hereby place you under arrest for the confessed destruction of the town of Whitefall, as well as the murder and injury done to the citizens therein. I ask you to come along to the magistrate peacefully."

She looked at him in utter surprise, and then threw her head back in laughter. Ramses stood with sword drawn, unfazed by her lack of fear. Eventually her laughter slowed somewhat, and she wiped a tear from her cheek.

"Oh darling Paladin, what a delightful proposal! How adorable that you think you can stop me! Well then, I'll have to summon a match worthy of your ego, won't I? But thank you for the laugh, it has been some time."

She spoke a few words in a guttural language and disappeared from their sight. Ramses quickly moved forward in search of her, but his hand met only air as it passed through where she'd been standing.

"Don't bother, Ramses," Leshar spoke up, "She teleported."

Ramses looked disgruntled as he searched the room. The Halfling continued to curse under his breath. Nathanial caught repetitions of the words _"two-faced hoor" _throughout his tirade, and felt sympathetic.

A low crackling noise began where the woman had disappeared, and the party looked to that spot hopefully. More crackling began near the entrance to the room, and spread around the walls. The hair stood up on the back of Nathanial's neck and he gripped his Morningstar, ready for some sort of attack. When the crackling ended, what seemed to be large, man-sized boulders appeared in six places around the room, blocking both exits. Looking confused at the anticlimactic result of whatever spell had been cast, Ramses approached a boulder cautiously. He reached out with his sword to touch it, and Leto cleared his throat.

"Ah...wouldn't do that Ramses, something doesn't seem right."

Ramses looked over at Leto, who paled at the sight of the boulder beginning to move. Ramses glanced back at it and did a double-take as it unfolded itself into an enormous humanoid with hide resembling the granite rock they'd all taken it for. All the boulders reacted similarly, and Ramses backed into the center of the room with the others.

"Watdefook!" exclaimed Sir, gripping his axe. He swung on the nearest creature, but his axe only embedded itself a few inches into the tough hide. When he yanked it free again, they could see the blade was notched.

"Everyone try to work your way to the exit," Ramses directed in a low voice, "they don't seem to move very quickly. First one out, get the horses. Saddle them if there's time, but if not then just take one and run."

"Bah!" exclaimed Sir with scorn, "roon? Haintgoonaroon, yewtakemefoorahpanzee?"

"And I'm not going to let you face them alone, Ramses," chimed in Whisper, "that's suicide."

"An I wanta piece of that lyin' hoor's pets ah do."

They looked down to see who'd spoken, having nearly forgotten the Halfling. He stood amongst them with a pair of gleaming daggers, eyeballing the shuffling creatures with grim satisfaction.

Ramses had no chance to respond as the creatures rushed them in a single movement. Leshar proved more nimble than he looked, and ducked under the swing of one creatures to sprint towards the door. Once there, he looked over the room in satisfaction and mumbled a spell beneath his breath.

The walls and floor of the room erupted in a sticky mass of spiderwebs several feet deep, trapping the feet of several creatures. Nathanial leapt clear and rolled towards the door as he swung on the nearest monster. His Morningstar connected, but the impact nearly jarred the weapon from his hand. A tingling numbness spread from his wrist to his shoulder, but the creature did not even seem to have been damaged. Panicked, he ducked beneath its swing and surveyed the fight. What caught his eye was that the fighters with the smallest weapons seemed to be doing more damage to the creatures. Sir's Axe and Whisper's falchion were chipping away pieces of stone, but the Halfling's daggers were cutting deep, drawing a black tar that may have been blood. Leto managed to trip his, then drove a punch so fiercely into the creature's head that it caused an explosion of stone and black tar. An idea occurred to Nathanial, and he scrambled for the exit, rolling between the feet of the creature blocking it.

He hurried to his horse and pulled out the crossbow he'd kept from the bar in MarketTown, as well as the half-quiver of bolts. He hurried to the doorway and took careful aim. His first bolt sunk deep into the neck of the creature fighting Ramses and it let out a mighty roar of pain.

Minutes later he was down to his final bolt. They were still struggling, but three of the creatures were down and the others injured. Sir was about to strike what could have been the killing blow on his opponent when the creature smashed its fist into the side of Sir's head, dropping him heavily to the web-covered floor.

"NO!" Nathanial cried out and shot the creature with his crossbow. The creature stumbled, but continued to struggle against the webbing to reach Sir. Nathanial heard a chuckle behind him and turned on Leshar menacingly.

"Do something already! You're a mage aren't you?"

Leshar cracked his knuckles.

"Why Boy, are you suggesting I haven't been helping?"

"Nevermind that, I don't want to play word games with you. If you can't help Sir, then I'll have to try."

Nathanial dropped his empty crossbow and picked up his Morningstar once again. He charged into the room to try and reach Sir's side, but ducked instinctively as he felt a rush of scorching air pass just over his head. He looked up to assess the new threat and saw an enormous ball of fire flying at the creature attacking Sir. His mind put together the danger of fire near the web still filling the room a heartbeat before the fire struck its target.

"NO!" he screamed in rage as the web caught. The fire raced through the room in seconds. Nathanial staggered back as the heat and smoke struck him as a solid wall, forcing him to retreat. The fire consumed the web so quickly that it was soon extinguished, leaving friend and foe alike choking on the ash.

The creatures they'd been fighting all dropped in the blast of the fire, but Nathanial rushed first to Sir's side. Ramses saw him kneel beside the body and stumbled, coughing in their direction. The Paladin checked anxiously for a pulse on the scorched body, but found none. He sat back on his heels and shook his head at Nathanial.

"I'm sorry Boy, he's dead."


	10. To Fan the Flames

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 10: To Fan the Flames**

_"Strange though, I always wondered why it happened like that."_

_"Like what?"_

_"well call me naive, but I always thought the people caught up in great destinies were supposed to know it. Ya know, crash of thunder and the future lies clear before you sort of thing."_

_"Some of the greatest destinies arrive like a cat's step. That is why so many slide unnoticed from the ranks of what might have been. The world is full of destinies and prophecies, enough for countless lifetimes of adventure. Fortunately, some manage to slip past your kind's stubborn denial of whatever happens to be staring you in the face. Enough for hope. Besides, the hero never really knows they're being heroic; not real heroes anyhow. That all comes later, when their mistakes and doubts, fears and foibles are stripped from them by well intentioned bardic rape; thus they are immortalized in verse. To be honest, most heroics are the result of being in the right place at the right time."_

_"And spitting mad."_

_"That helps, yes. And speaking of..."_

_"Do we have to?"_

_"You wish us to pass our judgment now then?"_

* * *

Nathanial looked up from Sir William's charred corpse with a core of ice in his belly warring with a hot rage building behind his eyes. Leshar stood before them with a good affectation of dismay, but Nathanial caught a mocking satisfaction lurking in his expression. His anger consumed his entire being, causing a buzzing in his ears and casting a red haze across his vision. He did not see the others exchange looks of amazement as his body began to emit a translucent aura of fire, nor was he aware of it happening. His entire mind was focused on the wizard leaning casually against the doorframe. 

"Murderer," Nathanial choked out with an outstretched finger accusing Leshar.

"I?" asked Leshar with all pretense of surprised innocence, "why it is only because of my spells that you are all still alive!"

"You saw Sir fall, I know you did. You set the web afire anyway. You _knew_ it would kill him, and you set it afire anyway!"

He was aware that his hand shook slightly, but he had lost some conscious control of his limbs.

Nathanial began to walk towards Leshar with his Morningstar raised. The others hesitated to lay hands on him to restrain him, not knowing if the dancing fire that surrounded him was real. He could hear Ramses' calming voice as if he were a great distance away, but his awareness had narrowed to himself and Leshar. It was only when the Paladin placed himself between them that Nathanial could wrench his attention away.

"Nathanial," said Ramses in a commanding voice, "You cannot attack him for vengeance, it would make you the murderer."

There was a moment of struggle in his mind. Nathanial stood on the brink of becoming the monster he'd been accused of all his life, and never had the temptation been so clear to deliberately harm another. But the Paladin held his gaze, reminding him of the few who had put their faith in him and offered friendship. The darker half of his soul cried out for blood, but his Morningstar lowered under Ramses' steady eyes.

"You saw what he did Ramses, you know..." Nathanial noted with horror that his voice shook slightly. He saw a smile lift the corners of Leshar's lips at the Paladin's apparent rescue. But Ramses hadn't finished speaking.

"I saw. And he will answer for what he has done. But in a courtroom, not by vigilante justice."

"Courtroom mah sweet tóin, Paladin," the halfling spoke up angrily from the corner of the room where he nursed considerable burns, "ah'm up for a bit of vigilante justice meself!"

Leshar's eyes flickered warily between the hostile glares in the room, suddenly uncertain of the influence he'd worked so hard to build. His smug confidence faltered at Ramses' unexpected impartiality.

"But Ramses," he said with admirable control, turning to his once assumed advocate, "Surely you can see that it was an accident. How could you think me capable of murdering a dear friend..."

"How dare you claim friendship with him, when he lays there dead by your hands!" Nathanial roared. He lifted his Morningstar, but was once more quelled by Ramses' gaze.

"That will be determined by the proper authorities, Leshar. I will not make judgment until the case is heard. Now will you come peacefully?"

Leshar frowned at the Paladin, who stood impassive before him, immune to all attempts at charm or negotiation. Nathanial could see him gauge his chances of escape before he let out a hearty sigh.

"Yes Ramses, I will go with you."

* * *

They traveled back to Markettown, subdued and weary. The watch was ordered to prevent his escape, much to Leshar's discontent but much to the somewhat sadistic satisfaction of the Halfling, who introduced himself to them as Ta'arnkap. Nathanial volunteered for the midnight watch to avoid giving the wizard an opportunity to provoke him further. He led Sir's horse as he rode; the body wrapped in a makeshift shroud and secured across the saddle like so much grain sacking. Ramses and Whisper rode to either side of Leshar with identical grim expressions, while Leto rode by Nathanial. The boy took heart in the monk's sympathy, but felt no desire to talk. On their third day of tight-lipped silence they rode into Markettown, and up to the magistrate's office. 

After heated debate and flying accusations, all but Ramses and Leshar were banished outside while the harried man on duty attempted to sort out the stories. Nathanial paced in agitation while he waited, throwing occasional grim glances at the Halfling sharpening daggers. When the door swung open Leshar stepped out with a jaunty spring to his step. Nathanial's jaw dropped in disbelief, and he turned a reproachful look on the Paladin behind Leshar.

"Ramses?"

The Paladin shook his head and took the reins of Sir's horse.

"We should get the body to the temple for burial, Nathanial."

Nathanial looked from his grim face to Leshar's triumphant one in disbelief.

"What about him!? Isn't he going to be arrested? Hung?"

Ramses shook his head regretfully.

"Nathanial, please try to understand that we had no way of knowing if Sir was still alive when Leshar set fire to the web. Since we do not know, we cannot say that Sir died by Leshar's hands. It may have been an accident."

"_May _have been an accident? May have been?"

Nathanial's voice was rising again, along with his anger. Leshar, somewhat giddy from his release, chose the wrong moment to gloat.

"Yes Nathanial, an accident. And I'm offended that you'd think it was anything else. I did what I thought was best at the moment to save you all, and I grieve more than anyone that my actions resulted in harm to my friends."

Nathanial's head whipped around with the rage building. The Halfling began shouting obscenities at Leshar, but the wizard's attention was focused on the boy's reddening eyes.

"Murderer..." Nathanial growled. As his anger peaked, motes of some unearthly substance began forming in the air around the Wizard. The motes burned with the smell of ozone and hissed as they fell. He heard Ramses speaking angrily behind him, telling him to stop, but the sound of his voice was drowned out by the buzzing in his ears, like crackling flames. He did not see the aura of fire begin to form around him, but he suddenly noticed, as the burning substance fell onto Leshar's skin and hair with a nauseating sizzle, that the wizard was smiling with some secret triumph. The sight was enough to cool a part of the anger with wariness, but he restrained himself far too late. Leshar took the opportunity to dash around him and hide behind Ramses, whimpering.

"Oh! The boy's lost control, he's a freak! Protect me Ramses!"

Sudden realization of Leshar's motives washed over Nathanial like a cold dash of water, and the voice of cool logic in his mind began to speak rapidly:

_"This is how he plans to turn them against me, and to his side. What does he hope to gain by their alliance?"_

A sudden flash of Leshar shaking hands with the woman in red sent by Khezrial flashed through Nathanial's mind, but he dismissed it as implausible.

_"Surely Ramses would know if he were in league with her...can't Paladins sense evil?"_

He eyed the wizard cowering behind the Paladin, his anger cooling to contempt.

"Coward," he threw at Leshar, with every ounce of scorn and ridicule he could put into the word. For a moment, Leshar broke out of the role he'd chosen to play and his eyes flashed blackly. Feeling as if he'd scored a blow, Nathanial took a step in their direction.

"Murdering _Coward!" _he spat again. Leshar's eyes promised death before he struggled to regain his frightened expression.

"Eek! Don't let him hurt me, Ramses!"

Nathanial snorted with disdain.

"Oh don't worry, Leshar. You're a sniveling waste of my time, and not even worth the effort to draw a weapon. Look at you, cowering behind someone like a damn mouse...." With that, Nathanial deliberately turned his back on Leshar and began walking away.

_"Don't ever turn your back on me boy."_

Nathanial started. The words had been spoken inside his head from outside of it. He recognized Leshar's voice, without any trace of the effeminate whine he spoke with normally. He turned slightly and eyed the Wizard, who gave him a knowing look in return, full of deep hatred.

_"You are brave enough surrounded by friends, boy. But one day you will be alone and I will be waiting."_

There was a brief pause, and Nathanial felt a stabbing pain in his mind, as if Leshar had cut his skull in half to examine his naked brain. He instinctively clamped down on the pain and blocked the intrusion. He felt surprise, then caution from the source.

_"So that is the source of your power then, not magic."_

He felt the pain again, a nearly physical pressure behind his eyes. Unbidden, the image of Leshar with Khezrial's minion floated to the surface once more. The force retreated with a faint burst of surprise, but he heard the last echo of the voice before it was silenced.

_"They will never believe you boy, and when I am done, they will think you mad."_

Leshar gave him a meaningful look before he fled towards the guard room, crying for protection. Ramses sighed and Nathanial felt the Paladin's disapproval settle like a cloud over him. He looked at Ramses defiantly, tongue tangled in outrage as he struggled to tell him what had happened in his mind. When he managed to only stutter the Paladin shook his head in disappointment and took up the reins of Sir's horse, leading it and its unfortunate cargo towards the temple.

* * *

A subdued and angry group waited Ramses' return at a bar. The inn was cleaner and friendlier than the one they'd last visited, but those huddled around the corner table felt little appreciation for the differences. Ta'arnkap kept up a running dialogue on the shortcomings of Wizards, both in general and one in particular. Nathanial began to feel hostile eyes on the back of his neck from elsewhere in the room, but could not think of a way to silence the garrulous Halfling without giving offense. 

He was saved the trouble when Ta'arnkap stopped speaking in mid-sentence, and was so relieved that it took a moment before the tension in his silence registered. He turned and followed the Halfling's gaze back to the door, wondering if Leto had returned from his trip to have his quarterstaff re-shod. His hopes plummeted at the sight of Leshar standing like some nightmare specter with a beatific smile across his face. Nathanial swallowed a cry of protest with the bitter realization that he'd half expected this. After a nod to the grim circle of faces around the table, the wizard found a seat at the bar, facing the door in anticipation of Ramses.

Whisper buried her head in her arms at the table with a soulful groan.

"We'll never be rid of him!"

She shot a sideways glance at the bar, at which Leshar grinned merrily and waved to her. Whisper buried her arms again for a moment, gathering resolve.

"Right then, he's left me no choice."

She rose from the table, drawing her falchion. Nathanial dove for her sword arm, spilling his glass with a wayward elbow. He managed to unbalance her enough to knock her back into her chair. Taking advantage of her utter shock at his actions, he put one hand over hers to push the falchion back into its sheath. He was aware of the silence that had fallen over the room at the sight of steel and shushed Whisper frantically when she opened her mouth to protest.

"Whisper shut up and listen to me for a second, don't you see what he's trying to do?"

She was taken aback at his vehemence and gave his words thought.

"What are you talking about Boy? And it better be good to justify laying your hands on me."

"Don't you see? If you attack him here and now, in front of all these witnesses, Ramses will be forced to charge you with assault....all right, murder then," he amended quickly when she glared at him for suggesting Leshar might walk away from the fight. "And probably charge us with helping you, or not stopping you, whatever the crime is."

"Accessory," chimed in the Halfling, gauging the distance to the bar with a throwing knife dancing over his knuckles, "And what's yer point Boy?"

"My point is that it would divide us, Whisper, making it easy for someone to pick us off one by one, and retrieve certain objects in our possession."

The last part he spoke softly through clenched teeth. A gleam in Whisper's eye told him she'd understood, but when he collapsed backwards into his chair he saw her try to dismiss the idea.

"You think _that_ is working for Khezrial? Come now Boy that seems a bit far-fetched. Are you sure you're not reading too much into Sir's death?"

Her face was sinking towards sympathy and condescension, making boy curse his stunted maturity for the thousandth time. He gritted his teeth impotently as Leshar's last words to him sunk in. "_They will never believe you boy..."_

Ta'arnkap eyed him dubiously, then turned to take Leshar's measure.

"Woil, ah'may know more about this Khezrial than you two, but ah do know she deals as well in trickery as in force. Ah wouldn't put it past her. But regardless of'all that lassie, is he worth goin'ta prison for? If'n you really want ta get rid of him, ah may have a better suggestion."

* * *

Poison was cowardly; Nathanial knew that in his heart. His wounded pride called out the justice of a coward meeting a cowardly death, but it still left bitterness in his mouth. When Ta'arnkap left to try and purchase it, he was kept from protesting by the determined look in Whisper's eye. But he silently writhed under the stigma of _coward_ just the same. He felt is so acutely that he wondered no one around him could see or smell it. It seemed as if everyone in the bar were shaking their head in shame, to have such a wretch among them. 

They didn't notice that Ta'arnkap had returned until a gnome near the bar gave him a wink. He was startled enough to jump, having already wondered if the patrons could sense the act he was about to commit. When he peered closer at the gnome, he recognized the cleverly disguised Halfling and gave Whisper a nudge.

"Now."

Whisper ordered a round of drinks at the table, plus extra for "absent friends." As the waitress set them down the gnome stumbled drunkenly over to them. He nudged the waitress aside and hovered greedily over the drinks.

"And how about a drink for new friends?" he slurred happily, with no trace of his usual rolling accent. Nathanial barely managed to spot the vial as it carefully dispensed the poison into one of the glasses.

"Shove off!" cried Whisper angrily, "I'm not here to play charity-maid for the drunks."

"Heartless human!" the gnome whined, and staggered out the door with a belch. Whisper glanced quickly down to her lap where the vial had fallen, and smeared a drop on her wrist before letting the vial fall to the floor and kicking it into a corner. The barmaid was busy apologizing, and Nathanial took his cue.

"Nevermind," he said reassuringly to the irritated girl. He pulled glasses quickly from the tray and set them around the table, leaving the poisoned one. He frowned in what he hoped looked like innocent confusion.

"You seemed to have brought one too many, I don't really drink. No problem, my friend probably ordered the wrong number. Why don't you send it up to that colorful gentleman at the bar? We'll still pay for it of course."

He laid two gold pieces on the tray, twice the price of the drinks. The woman's irritation faded considerably and she winked at him.

"Why I do believe we have a young prince in disguise amongst us! Would you like something else to drink then, little sir?"

Nathanial shook his head, with a forced smile beginning to ache on his face. She giggled and flounced her skirts as she carried the tray back up to the bar, and Nathanial turned so that he couldn't watch. He looked up as a waft of air indicated the opening door, but couldn't meet Ta'arnkap's eye as the restored Halfling slid into his place at the table.

"Dinna look now, but your Paladin is two steps behind me."

Whisper and Nathanial both swiveled to look at the door as Ramses entered, which gave their reaction to the shriek at the bar the force of real surprise.

"Princess! Speak to me darling! Oh what's wrong!?"

They moved cautiously closer to the scene, staying with the crowd. Leshar held his multicolored monkey in one arm while he wailed.

"Poisoned! She's been poisoned!"

The bartender blanched and tried quickly to pull away the glass the monkey had stolen a drink from, but Ramses strode forward with a shout for him to stop. The bartender handed the glass somewhat defiantly to the Paladin, and Ramses began to cast a spell over the continued sobbing from Leshar. Nothing changed that they could see, but Ramses studied the glass carefully before asking for the bottle and studying it as intently. The three at the table watched in anxiety.

"The glass is poisoned," pronounced Ramses, "but with a very mild poison. Princess should be fine with as little as she drank. The bottle, however is not, meaning that the poisoned reached the glass between the bottle and the monkey."

He looked at the barmaid, who turned pale and began protesting her innocence. Leshar continued to sniffle, but Nathanial could feel the pressure of his attempt to enter his mind.

_"Well played boy, but the game is mine."_

When the waitress gestured towards their table Whisper gasped and knocked over her own drink, resting her poisoned wrist briefly in the spill. She backed away from the glass as if in horror.

"They poisoned the wrong glass! I must have been the target!"

Ramses' face was void of expression as he watched her. Ta'arnkap kicked Nathanial heavily in the knee, and he stared at the Halfling stupidly before a thought raced through his mind.

"The gnome!" he shouted as he leapt to his feet, "The gnome must have tried to poison Whisper, but he got the wrong glass!"

Whisper closed her eyes and swayed slightly.

"I...I don't feel well..." she said softly, sinking back into her chair.

Ramses studied her glass and the liquid on the table, then her. His gaze turned to Nathanial and the boy nearly flinched beneath it, envying Whisper her excuse to faint. Ta'arnkap appeared to ignore them both as he peered into Whisper's eyes.

"Aye lass, you may have gotten a small dose after all."

Nathanial pretended concern for Whisper, but couldn't help a sideways glance at Ramses' stony face.

_"He doesn't believe us, he knows somehow..."_ he admitted to himself with a sinking heart. He listened to Ramses' footsteps retreat, and winced when the door shut quietly behind him.

Nathanial reluctantly admitted after several long minutes had passed, that Ramses would most likely not return. He shot a look to Ta'arnkap who began attempting to "revive" the fainting Whisper.

"Ah think ye need some fresh air girly, let up to yer feet."

She stood, wavering and walked with them towards to door. Nathanial hoped they'd be able to catch up to Ramses' head start, and keep him from leaving them forever. If nothing else, Nathanial wanted to ask forgiveness.

He followed the others to the door, shoulders drooped in shame. When Whisper and Ta'arnkap opened the door and stepped to one side to let a group of rambunctious drunks past him into the bar, Nathanial lifted his eyes when the many booted feet had passed, and found himself facing a man in the doorway.

The face was familiar enough for him to give a second look, but it was the flash of recognition in the stranger's eyes that made Nathanial search his memory anxiously for where he'd met the man before. It was a distinctive enough face with an odd foreign cast in the fine-boned features, but as hard as he tried, Nathanial could not remember having seen it before.

He waited for the stranger to either step inside or move to let them by, but he continued to block the doorway. Whisper grew agitated under his knowing smile, but could not break her ruse of illness.

"_Assassin_..." She whispered to Nathanial through clenched teeth.

He looked the man over warily, from the boots scuffed from long travel, the twin longswords at his belt, to the intricately braided leather band across his forehead. The man was alert, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, one hand almost unconsciously hovering over his sword hilt. Nathanial broke into a light sweat and gripped the handle of his Morningstar. He wasn't sure if the man was an assassin for Whisper or if he recognized the face from his days on the run from Franklin, but he knew he would have to be careful if he were to leave the bar alive. He drew himself up into a semblance of cool confidence and pulled his Morningstar leisurely from its holster.

"Step aside," he demanded of the stranger.

The man raised an eyebrow and his smile broadened. Nathanial felt almost disoriented. Something was too familiar about that face. The stranger's next words drove panic into Nathanial's nerves, already at a strain from maintaining their ruse. They seemed to mock him with the knowledge that he might always be running, never safe.

"I've been looking for you," the stranger quietly announced.

* * *

**Tóin** _backside (Irish Gaelic)_


	11. Fire in the Family

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 11: Fire in the Family**

_"So if this mission is that important, why do you give it up, and to a total stranger?"_

_"I cannot travel with those I suspect of such an act of evil. To pursue it and find them guilty would scatter us and make us vulnerable; to pretend innocence where there may be none would betray my vows to Kalidine. This is the only way. I sense no evil in you, and you have ties to Nathanial which would seem to obligate you."_

_"None that he knows of, Paladin, not yet.__ Why should he trust me?"_

_"Give the name Monk as a password of sorts. As well as my own. If you wish to gauge the situation before revealing your relationship, it will give you an excuse to travel with them."_

_"Good guess, Paladin, I may do just that. And do you truly suspect my brother of this?"_

_"He is the least likely, although if it happened he knew beforehand, and perhaps even participated. My guess is that someone influenced him, perhaps Whisper but more likely the Halfling."_

_"That will be seen. If any of them are posing a threat to him, they will have me to deal with."_

* * *

"I've been looking for you," the stranger quietly announced.

Nathanial's body reacted while his mind still reeled, but something guided his hand and he struck true. The Morningstar connected solidly with the side of the man's face and sent him stumbling to one side of the doorframe. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth, and he reached up absent-mindedly to brush it away. He gave Nathanial a more respectful scrutiny, curiously without fear or anger.

Ta'arnkap and Whisper had to work together to push Nathanial through the doorway, but once he was outside he found his legs again. He ran with them to where their horses were still hitched and rode at a frantic gallop towards the northern end of town. Behind them, the bloodied stranger drew a vial from a cunningly concealed armband and drank the contents. The bruises faded quickly from his face, and he entered the bar with a reflective half-smile. The colorful Wizard at the counter was the first thing to catch his attention.

Leto managed to keep pace with their horses, even at a dead run, but he was breathing much harder than they were by the time they reluctantly slowed to rest their mounts.

"What...happened...back...there..." he gasped between deep gulps of air. The three conspirators exchanged guilty looks and lowered their eyes.

"We'll tell you when we camp," Whisper finally responded quietly. The Halfling straightened in his saddle with an indignant look on his face.

"AH'LL tell ya what happn'd," he began, his accent growing thicker with his indignation, "That motherless sonofa three-legged beithíoch merchant decided it was a good idea t'sell me a damanta sleepin' potion inst'ea the poison ah asked for!"

Leto blinked. Nathanial realized with a spark of humor that they had finally managed to take the monk by surprise, even though it had almost taken murder to accomplish it.

"Any idea who that man was?" he asked the other two. Leto looked impatiently between them, waiting for someone to explain.

"What man?"

Whisper shrugged, ignoring Leto's desperate curiosity out of indifference or revenge.

"He doesn't look the type my father would employ. And he seemed to recognize you Nathanial."

Nathanial nodded grimly, still sorting through faces in his mind, recalling every townsman, merchant, traveler he'd met in his wanderings. But the stranger's face had too distinctive of a cast, somehow both foreign and familiar. He was sure he'd never seen him before, but searched his memory anyway.

"An agent of Khezrial? A messenger from Monk, maybe?" he mused. Further possibilities he spoke only in his mind, "_bounty hunters from __Franklin__, from the lordling in Pentwater...has__ it been long enough? Surely they would have forgotten me by now..._ "

He was interrupted by a loud, deliberate clearing of the throat. He shook off his reverie to see Leto staring intently at him. When Nathanial gave him no more than a blank stare he rolled his eyes and sighed heavily.

"Is anyone going to explain to me what happened? Because if you're going to make me wait until we camp, you could at least stop discussing it over my head."

"Well what do you expect," Whisper retorted with dry sarcasm, "you're the one who didn't want a horse. Would you feel better if we got down and walked while we talked?"

It took Nathanial a moment to realize that Whisper was making a joke, and his surprise kept him from responding. The Halfling chuckled quietly and took up the banter.

"Perhaps ye'could walk on ahead of us a bit, then we could speak on'it behind yer back as well!"

Nathanial's mouth twitched with repressed laughter at the enraged expression on Leto's face. The monk's eyes closed as he silently counted to ten, and then with the great dignity of the affronted he sped up to leave them out of earshot behind him. Nathanial gave himself a few minutes to stop laughing before he hurried to catch up to his friend and fill him in on all that had happened.

They made camp just inside the woods at the turnoff of the path to the keep. In fear of pursuit they made no fire that night, and Ta'arnkap camped by himself on the opposite side of the path. There was a tension that made sleep difficult, and Nathanial was still stirring restlessly when he heard horses approach along the path. He quietly shook the others awake, hoping the Halfling would hear as well and not be caught unawares. With every ounce of stealth he could muster he crept towards the trail to try and identify the riders as they passed.

Instead of passing, the horses slowed as they approached the section of trail nearest the camp, then stopped when they stood clearly in Nathanial's sight. The tallest of the three riders dismounted and crouched to examine the soil where they'd turned off the trail. Nathanial silently cursed and crept back to where his friends were waiting. With hand gestures he motioned for them to hide while he crouched behind a fallen log with his crossbow trained in the direction of the path. Two of the three figures were not long in coming, but it startled him how the tallest seemed to simply coalesce from the shadows of the forest, without rustling so much as a leaf as he passed. Nathanial froze as the rider's gaze turned towards him, not even daring to breath for fear of revealing his presence. A nagging suspicion in the back of his mind told him the stranger could somehow hear his heartbeat, which sounded like kettledrums in his own ears. When the stranger began heading directly towards his hiding spot, Nathanial knew he'd been discovered.

"Halt," he called out, partially to let the others know he'd been spotted, "Identify yourselves."

The shorter of the two figures lowered his hood, and Nathanial knew from the flash of riotous color who it was before he even saw the face. His crossbow was immediately aimed at Leshar. The tall figure lowered his own hood to reveal the stranger who'd blocked the door at the Inn. While Nathanial was distracted by the surprise of seeing him there, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye that sent him diving to one side. A crossbow bolt embedded itself in a tree where his head had been moments before. He looked up cautiously to see Leshar re-loading.

Whisper erupted from her hiding place with her falchion half-drawn and Nathanial retrained the sights of his crossbow on Leshar. Before he could squeeze the trigger, the stranger moved to block all three attackers. His swords seemed almost to leap into his hands, moving faster than the eye could track. Awe kept Nathanial's hand from loosing the bolt, and even gave Whisper pause. The stranger watched her intently, holding both swords evenly to attack or defend.

"Don't," he simply said. His eyes followed her hand keenly as it slid her falchion back into its sheath. Still aware of her movements, he turned back to where Nathanial hid.

"Its all right, you can put away the crossbow."

Nathanial snorted scornfully and kept his bolt aimed at Leshar, who had finished re-loading his crossbow and aimed it back at him. He scanned the clearing in short glances, searching for the third rider.

"Like hell it's all right!"

The stranger looked impatiently between Leshar and Nathanial. His voice now held a note of very deliberate patience.

"How about both of you drop your weapons then. I'll even," he added sarcastically, "count to three."

Neither of us moved, and the stranger let out a heavy sigh. His guard was not down, however, and he dodged the flying dagger almost before he was aware of it. The blade buried itself in the tree behind him, and he spun around to face the new threat.

"Looks to me like we've got you in a good old fashioned Madrezarian Standoff!" Ta'arnkap announced cheerfully as he stepped out of the woods with two more daggers ready. "Now I'd suggest that YOU," as he pointed at the stranger, "and YOU," and he pointed at LeShar, "drop YOUR weapons." Leto emerged from the woods on the other side of Leshar and assumed his usual deceptive slouch against a tree, with a quarterstaff resting lazily across his shoulders. He was, Nathanial noticed, within striking distance of the wizard.

The stranger gave an exasperated groan and shook his head. He cautiously lowered the swords, trying at once to keep all the weapons surrounding him in view. With a movement like a striking snake he sheathed them nearly as quickly as he'd drawn them. Nathanial watched the movement of his hands enviously; here was the sort of fighter Brand might have turned him into.

Everyone else held their ground, to the stranger's annoyance. After seeing how fast he'd drawn them, the man's swords being in their sheaths held no reassurance for Nathanial.

"Look," the stranger finally began in a voice dripping with controlled exasperation and forced reasonableness, "my name is Marcus. Ramses," he paused to allow the surprise register on their faces, "told me where to find you and asked me to help you. He said to use the name Monk as a password and give you these." Slowly he removed a belt pouch and emptied into his palm. The original envoys of Monk wore expressions of surprise and suspicion, while Ta'arnkap seemed only confused. Nathanial's eyes, however, were on Leshar. A flash of commingled greed and triumph lit the wizard's face as his hand twitched unconsciously towards the stranger's.

"How do we know you didn't kill Ramses and take them?" demanded Whisper.

"I guess you don't. But for what it's worth, I didn't." The stranger's eyes flicked from Nathanial's crossbow to Leshar's with exasperation. "Put down the crossbows" he said.

Nathanial shot him a rude gesture that made Whisper gasp and Leto suppress a grin.

"Regardless of your highly questionable credentials," Nathanial replied, "I do not travel with the murderer Leshar."

"And I," countered Leshar, "will not leave myself defenseless in the face of an armed, mentally unstable child."

"Give me a reason Leshar..." Nathanial snarled, his finger tightening over the release catch. A flickering aura of flame began to surround him as he stared intently down the bolt shaft.

"Behind you Ta'arnkap!" Whisper warned, as a rustle in the bushes announced the approach of the third rider. Ta'arnkap's mad grin increased as he backed slowly away from the noise at an angle to keep both it and Leshar in his range of vision. A dwarf emerged from the undergrowth wielding a cunningly crafted miniature crossbow in each hand. He smiled broadly as if attending no more than a friendly picnic, and rolled a large sliver of wood from one side of his mouth to the other.

"Well then," he said by way of introduction, "If someone will just tell me who's robbing who, I'll know where to put my own loyalties."

"No one," the stranger groaned while rubbing his temples to clear a headache, "is robbing anyone Boris." He looked up with a determined set to his face and stepped directly in front of Leshar's bolt. "Put it away."

Leshar slowly lowered the crossbow under the man's stern gaze. He nodded and turned to face Nathanial, still in the direct path of the bolt. "Now you."

Nathanial reluctantly lowered his as well.

"Now put them away, both of you," the man continued, "and that goes for everyone."

He swept his piercing stare around the camp, and there were muttered protests as catches were clipped for safety and daggers returned to their sheaths.

"Now," the man said with obvious relief, "as I said, my name is Marcus, I was sent to you by Ramses, and for now I suggest we start a fire, heat some food, and talk."

"Yes Boy," Leshar simpered, "Do start a fire for us. Or do we have to make you angry first?"

"Your continued presence is a good start, Leshar..."

"Then you should have no problem. Or can you? Can you control it Boy?"

Nathanial felt trapped by the challenge, and wondered at Leshar's motives. Could he simply be taunting him, knowing that he would not reveal his power to the others, or was he hoping Nathanial would try, only to fail? He knew that someday he would have to stop pretending the power did not exist, but he hadn't expected to ever try and call it at will. The stranger, seeing his panic, turned to Leshar with a flat expression.

"Leshar."

Leshar turned to the man with one eyebrow raised in inquiry.

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

The wizard's face tightened in irritation. Nathanial glared at the stranger and drew himself up, intent on proving he needed no one's protection.

"All right then, I will," he asserted quietly, "I've never called it up on purpose before, but I will try."

He walked over to the center of the camp, feeling as if the forest itself was staring at him and readying a laugh. Under the weight of those imaginary eyes he felt fear rise in him again. He swallowed heavily and suppressed it as best he could, not daring to glance towards Leshar's smug expression. He stared at the small pile of branches and twigs laid out for the morning's cookfire and _reached_ into his mind, towards that place where he'd felt the power before. To his surprise it was still there, waiting to be stirred up. He brought it forward carefully, and focused it on a single log. The air around him shimmered slightly, and he felt a sudden wave of nostalgia as it reminded him of the summer heat melting the air above the black tar roofs of Franklin.

It only felt like seconds in his mind before the log began to smolder and finally burn, but when he became aware of his surroundings again, he felt himself shaking, with sweat dripping from his temples. He took a shuddering breath and sat down to try and hide his weakened knees. He looked defiantly at the stranger, who responded with a level gaze. Nathanial waited for the "freak" look to come into the stranger's eyes, or some sign of fear. But it did not come. Nor, he realized, was it present in the faces of Whisper, Ta'arnkap or Leto. The man who called himself Marcus was the first to break the silence.

"Thank you Nathanial," he said in an even tone, "Now, shall we parlay?"

Nathanial snuck a glance at Leshar's reaction to the others' lack of surprise, and felt a weight lift from his mind. Leshar's power over him was broken, and the hanging threat of revelation was gone like so much smoke rising from the crackling branches. Leshar was expressionless as he regarded Nathanial carefully, and realized this himself. The wizard smiled benignly.

"Well done, Boy."

"I believe Boy is the operative word here, Marcus," the dwarf spoke up as he settled himself around the fire, "I didn't sign on with you to baby-sit women and children. I came to fight."

"Excuse me?" asked Whisper in an ominous tone, "you have a problem fighting with women?"

"Me? Nah, I fight with them all the time, and I've known some to be a crack shot with a frying pan when a man's late for dinner. But I've had women along on this sort of thing before, and have found them to be nothing but a liability. No offense my dear."

Even Leshar was distracted at the sight of one charging so boldly into death, with such cheerful ignorance. Whisper's eyes smoldered, and her jaw tightened like a spring. We held our breaths and waited for the explosion, but her voice was chill as ice when she spoke.

"I have more faith in you becoming a liability to us, friend dwarf, as I am well able to take care of myself. But if you would care to dispute that you are more thief than able fighter, I would certainly be willing to test your skill myself; unless, of course, you are even more craven than I had first suspected."

The dwarf continued to smile, but now only his mouth was involved. His eyes were stern.

"Little girl, if you truly wish to bite off more than you can chew, I will indulge you in such. But if you dispute my honor or courage again, I will take you over my knee and paddle you until you can't sit a horse for a sevenday."

"We shall see."

They each rose from their seat and stalked into the woods beside the camp. After a moment those sitting around the fire heard the clash of steel from the forest. The stranger bowed his head and muttered to himself in a foreign tongue.

_"Please tell me my brother isn't as stupid as his friends..."_

It took Nathanial nearly half a minute before he realized he'd understood the words, and he cast his mind back to try and remember where he'd learned them. A chill settled over him when he realized the answer. He could feel the blood drain from his face as he replied to the man in the same language he'd learned as a child.

"_Brother? What Brother?"_

The stranger, Marcus looked at him sharply, but seemed less surprised than he was. He regarded Nathanial carefully, unsure of how to proceed.

"Where did you learn that language?" he finally asked, suspecting he knew the answer.

"My mother taught me...she said it was the language of my father. How do you know it?"

Marcus sighed. He saw Nathanial's eyes travel to his headband and where, if one looked closely, it covered the elongated tips of his ears. Aware of the others still around the campfire he replied again in his birth language.

_"I have always spoken it. Your language is foreign to me and I had to learn it when I was younger. Do you still understand me?"_

Nathanial nodded mutely, studying the familiar eyes, the cast of features reminiscent of vague images in his dreams. Marcus took heart at his apparent lack of fear and revealed what he's thought to keep secret for some time.

_"I am your brother, Nathanial. My father was also your's. That is why I have been searching for you."_

He had been expecting the man to say something of the sort, but hearing it was still a shock. Wonder and excitement that he was no longer without family; anger that his brother had taken this long to find him; scared curiosity as to what Marcus would think of him; all mixed with the seed of resentment that his mother had not been his father's only love. He sat quietly to allow the idea to sort itself out in his mind, staring thoughtfully at his newly discovered kin. When the confusion finally sorted itself out inside him, he was impressed that Marcus continued to hold his gaze, something that had always unnerved people. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Whisper and the Dwarf's return. They both looked the worse for wear as they flopped down nearby, but despite the wary looks they still exchanged, peace had apparently been declared.

"Who won?" drawled Leto with an impish grin. Whisper merely gave him a haughty look.

"That is not important, what is important is that we have both proven that we can fight, although he had the advantage of lower light."

"In other words, you lost?"

Whisper turned the full force of her glare on Leto, who threw up his hands in mock surrender. The Dwarf waited for her attention to return to cleaning her sword and gave them a wink to confirm their suspicions. Whisper had indeed lost. At the scattering of half-suppressed snickers around the fire her spine stiffened and she turned her attention on Marcus.

"How much did Ramses tell you?"

"That you were given these items by a man named Monk to protect from a woman named Khezrial," he replied, unfazed by Whisper's hostile tone, "that no one but her yet knows what they are, but it is of great importance to keep them from her."

"And them?" she asked, indicating Leshar and the dwarf.

Marcus shrugged, "I asked after you in the Inn, they asked to join me. You'll have to ask them what motivated them to do so."

It took the dwarf a moment to notice the expectant stares directed at him. He paused in the motion of tipping his liquor flask into his mouth and grew wary.

"What?"

"Haven't you been listening?"

There was a pause while he thought about it and completed the swig from his flask.

"No."

Whisper rolled her eyes and addressed the dwarf as if he were a child, carefully spacing her words.

"who...are...you...and...why...are...you....here."

He raised an eyebrow at her, acknowledging the insult but not rising to it.

"You may call me Boris, it will do as well as any other name. Word reached me this afternoon that I had to unexpectedly, and quickly vacate Markettown. I felt it was safer traveling with a group, especially one that would be taken the road less beaten, so to speak."

Nathanial looked him over, sensing the embarrassment beneath the gruff exterior.

"Why did you have to leave?"

Boris hemmed and hawed, obviously flustered, "I'd rather not talk about it in mixed company, if it's all the same to you Boy...suffice to say I had my reasons, not the least of which were some fairly hefty gambling debts."

_And a woman I'll bet, someone else's wife or daughter,_ Nathanial thought to himself.

"So, then," the dwarf said with an exaggerated yawn, "I assume you folks post a watch, how about someone wake me when it's my turn, I'm beat." With a great show of stretching and yawning and sleepily scratching at his beard Boris laid out on the ground where he sat and began to snore softly. The others exchanged amused glances at the obvious evasion of any more questions.

"So what's your story?" Leto asked Marcus, who looked thoughtful.

"A man stopped me as I came into town and told me of a danger to the world, and how he could no longer continue his quest. I found you where he said you'd be."

"How very altruistic." Whisper replied with a sarcastic drawl, "Is that all?"

"Isn't it enough?" he retorted mildly. She had no answer, but continued to cast wary glances his way. Nathanial was caught by surprise in a jaw-cracking yawn. Marcus looked over at him and smiled.

"_Sleep brother, there will be time to talk tomorrow."_

Nathanial obediently unfolded his bedroll, still bursting with so many questions that he wasn't sure he could get just one out coherently. As he settled down, facing the fire, he met Leshar's eyes over the flames. Without warning, he felt the pressure of a familiar force invading his mind. He fought it, and was surprised to find it was easier to do so than it had been in the past. He felt surprise from Leshar as well, then a strengthening of the attack.

_"Well-well Boy, you've been practicing!" _the familiar voice of Leshar spoke inside his mind.

_"Well you did encourage me to do so,"_ Nathanial thought back, _"I am curious to know how you plan to blackmail me now that everyone knows what I can do..."_

There was a soft chuckle, and Leshar actually smiled.

_"I'm sure you are. Let's find out, shall we?"_

There was a dull pain in his temples that began to throb with his heartbeat. He felt the pressure increase, and closed his eyes in concentration. He fought it with all his strength, losing ground slowly but forcing Leshar to fight for every bit. At last the force retreated with a suddenness that made him gasp.

_"Well isn't that interesting? I don't suppose anyone's ever told you before Boy, but caring about someone is a double-edged sword. The more joy you derive from their company now, the more painful it will be when they are taken from you."_

Nathanial's breath caught in his chest and a slow rage began to build inside him.

"I don't respond well to threats, Leshar."

The conversation around the fire died suddenly, and Nathanial realized he had spoken aloud. Face burning, he kept his eyes tightly closed, hoping they would mistake his words for part of a dream.

_"Who said anything about threats? I merely stated an unfortunate fact of life."_

Aloud, Nathanial could hear Leshar chuckle indulgently.

"Poor Boy's exhausted, he must be dreaming!" His voice took on an odd hypnotic cadence which seemed to dull Nathanial's senses and leech tension from his body, "Go to sleep now Boy," he said in a soothing voice, "and dream of more pleasant things."

Nathanial felt himself powerless to avoid the yawning blackness of unconsciousness. He heard the voice in his mind one final time, strangely echoed as if from a great distance before sleep engulfed him.

_"We may meet again, Boy...And I for one look forward to it."_

When Nathanial awoke the sun was streaming through the trees from the east, his friends were packing their belongings into their saddlebags, and Leshar was gone.

* * *

beithíoch beast (in reference to a person) (Irish)

damanta bloody (slang invective) (Irish)


	12. Fire in the Keep

_Author's Note: For the full text of the song Lyra sings, and more on the most amazing, astounding, mostly fearless bard ever to be beaten in a drinking contest by a half-elf kid, see "Song of the West Wind" by Eirecat. For a bit of her background you can also read "Follies Under the Banner" by LaughingWolf, who is also the DM of the game that produced this motley, unholy group of misfits! BTW, before anyone in the game gets outraged, I deviate from the storyline in these next few chapters for dramatic license and fewer pointless plot branches that go nowhere._

_My apologies for the long interval between chapters.__ As the lady said, "The time between meeting and finally leaving, is sometimes called falling in love." In my case the entire cycle took two months and left no room for writing. Thank whatever Gods look down for Ally's album of Chicks that Rock. I don't think this chapter's of the same quality as previous ones, but I'm sure I'll go back and revise it eventually. For now I just wanted to get something out there. _

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 12: Fire in the Keep**

_"Ah good then you're back. From what the good bartender told me I thought I might have missed you altogether, and that would be heartbreaking."_

_"Is there something you wanted m'lady?"_

_"First of all, you can stop calling me that. The last bloke to accuse me of being a lady had a rather nasty accident...something about a glass tankard to the back of the head. Tragic, really."_

_"Yes, tragic."_

_"Oh, you can stop with the evil eye my dour little friend, that wasn't a threat or anything. Tell you what. I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with the colorful gentleman and the Dwarf the night before last..."_

_"You mean the one spoken quietly in a private corner of the room?"_

_"Yes of course. My word, how DO you get just one eyebrow up like that? You really must show me sometime. Anyhow, as I understood it you were looking to hire on a few extra hands to help out on the road, and as it so happens, I happen to be rather handy myself, not to mention in somewhat of an unfortunate circumstance which requires me to leave town almost immediately. And as this is just too happy a coincidence to be accidental, I must conclude that we were destined to travel together, don't you think?"_

_"Not really."_

_"Heavens, man, don't deny your destiny, it has a habit of happening whether you like it or not, so you'd might as well save yourself the effort and meet it head-on. Forth into the fray and all that."_

_"How...dramatic.__ Why are you so eager to come with us, other than being run out of town?" _

_"Well, 'run' out of town seems a bit of an exaggeration really, I think of it more as an opportunity to stretch my legs and mind a bit after spending too long in one place. Perhaps I'm even looking for a touch of excitement."_

_"Excitement?__ Well that, at least, I'm sure we can provide..."_

_"Well good... I think. By the way has anyone ever told you that you have a most frightening smile sometimes?"_

* * *

There was no mention of Leshar's absence that morning, or indeed, ever again. But he seemed to hang on their minds like a ghost, and they dreaded every corner they turned for fear of coming face to face with his triumphant grin. Gradually, over time, they allowed themselves to hope they were truly rid of him. It was more difficult for Nathanial, knowing what he knew of the wizard. He felt some qualms over whether he should tell the others of Leshar's hinted association with Khezrial, but some part of him still feared the truth to what he'd been told; they'd never believe him. The longer they went without him, the less ominous it seemed, until he forgot about it altogether. Marcus never asked for an explanation, and so the matter dropped into memory. 

Nathanial watched his new-found brother with curious awe as Marcus followed Ramses' trail. Where Marcus saw footprints, he saw only the dirt and grass of the path, trampled twice already by their journey and return to the ruined keep days before. The three friends from Whitefall rode silently, caught up in their own thoughts, remorse, or, in Whisper's case, suspicion of their two new companions. Nathanial watched her with amusement as she kept them warily in sight at all times. Marcus was quiet as well, but Nathanial recognized the silence of a person naturally taciturn, rather than hostile or secretive. His companion, by some strange contrast, kept up a constant stream of conversation in his gravelly voice. Nathanial found it easy to allow the Dwarf's conversation to fade into the background, where the rumble was a comfortable disruption of the silence much as stream over rocks or the wind in the chattering broadleaf trees. Every now and then Boris would break into laughter at his own joke, and elicited a ghostly smile from Leto or a hard stare from Whisper.

When the late afternoon sun began to sink behind the trees they could see the wall of the keep looming before them. Nathanial saw Marcus quirk an eyebrow in surprise as he looked up at the looming wall, but he turned towards the main gate without speaking. Echoes of Sir's voice seemed to leap from the crumbling stone as they entered. A gloom settled over them that quieted even the Dwarf. Nathanial turned his head away as they passed the remains of the old temple, knowing it would be too recent a reminder.

There was no trace of the eerie sensation in the rooms of the main keep. The perfectly preserved arms and skeletons were now piles of dust, sifted by the capricious breezes that escaped through the doorways at either end. Nathanial grasped at a bizarre thought that Khezrial's envoy might be waiting for them once again, but when he stopped and slowed his breathing to listen he heard only the distant drip of water. No premonition tugged at his attention. Marcus motioned for them to stop, and began pacing out steps in the floor. At one point he knelt suddenly by a darkened stain and gave Nathanial a keen look before moving on.

_That's where I fell,_ Nathanial realized, _when my morningstar attacked me, that stain is my blood._

Then, with some amazement, he muttered to himself,

_"How did he know?"_

He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud until Boris turned and gave him a knowing grin. There was something in his expression that made Nathanial suddenly nervous to be near the Dwarf, and he was relieved when Marcus gave them the signal to follow once again.

Ta'arnkap was the only one who'd been in this part of the keep. The Halfling threw bitter looks at the walls as they passed, and muttered "nowt a bloody copper," as he walked. He was silenced only when the walls of the corridor opened suddenly to either side beyond an intricate archway. They could still make out writing carved above the arch, but Nathanial could not identify the language. It was vaguely reminiscent of Khaldeshian script, but the letters were shaped oddly, and he did not recognize any of the words from his small vocabulary. By the light of the lantern they could see stone columns reaching to the ceiling, where the glittering remains of a mural could still be seen on the crumbling plaster. The walls stretched beyond the circle of light they carried, but the impression was of a vast open hall. They stepped carefully, as each dislodged pebble sent echoes shouting back at them. They came to where a portion of the ceiling had collapsed as if a giant's fist had driven through the layers of stone, and continued to punch through the floor into the rooms beneath. The sheer scale of the jagged holes in floor and ceiling, and their presence there in that nobly made room gave the scene a dream-like element. But what held Nathanial's eyes was a new silk rope, a mere spider's thread against the massive columns and boulders, leading over the edge of the drop.

Marcus studied the scene before him and turned to the group with the first words he'd spoken in several hours.

"There's no way of knowing how stable the floor is to either side, so don't even approach but one at a time. We'll give the rope a wave to let you know when it's safe to send the next person."

He approached the hole, lifted the rope in both hands, and disappeared over the edge with a neat rappel lunge. In what seemed like a very short time the rope flopped across the floor in the expected signal. Leto strolled over to the edge, looked down and simply jumped. They heard the soft impact of his landing almost immediately. Hooch barked impatiently down into the gulf, then leapt at the sound of a brief whistle. A sparse rain of dust fell as the sound shook it from its resting place.

"It can't be more than fifteen or twenty feet then," Whisper said softly. Boris turned his unsettling smile on her.

"Ladies first."

She gave him a hard look, as if sensing motives hidden beneath the smile.

"Oh no, after you, I insist."

Her tone was impeccably polite, but an edge in her voice told him she was not going to allow him at her back. With a shrug he sauntered over to the rope and descended. Ta'arnkap spat on the floor by his feet.

"M'I th'only one tha trusts tha dwarf as far'as I could toss'im? Ah dinna trust a man who smiles like that."

Whisper nodded sharply in agreement and Ta'arnkap moved carefully across the floor to slip down the rope. She followed, and Nathanial, suddenly feeling as if the gap in the floor resembled the open jaws of some supernatural creature waiting to close on him, swallowed his fear before descending into the darkness.

A flare of light came from the oil lantern in Marcus's hands, causing the eyes of rats near the base of the wall to glow an unholy red. As the lamp chased away the shadows they scurried into their boltholes, keeping a careful eye on these new intruders. Ta'arnkap looked around eagerly.

"Ah never made it this far down when ah was los...explorin' tha keep." He stopped to sniff the air with a look of disgust, "Ye smell tha?"

The odor of rot rode a cool breeze towards them from down the tunnel. It wasn't as strong as to gag, but enough to make them want to breathe through their mouths to avoid the odor. It grew stronger as they made their way cautiously down the tunnel, but it was several minutes before they found the cause. The corridor floor began to angle downwards, but what they thought was the floor leveling out was simply the beginning of an impressive pile of refuse. Garbage was mixed with remains of creatures and cast-offs such as weapons, armor and clothing. Broken and discarded furniture was half-buried in the mass. Marcus held up the lantern to illuminate the pile, and the glittering reflection of junk extended several hundred feet before the corridor began to slope upwards again. The hairs stood up on the back of Nathanial's neck.

"I don't like this," he said quietly, "it's dangerous."

Whisper snorted, "Of course it is, there's broken glass everywhere, not to mention probably rats...Are you sure," she demanded severely of Marcus, "that Ramses went this way?"

Marcus nodded briskly and picked up the broken handle of a spear lying within reach. He prodded the pile to test its stability, and then began picking his way across it. Boris watched him for a moment, then turned a condescending smile on them.

"Step where he steps and you'll get through. Watch your feet though, who knows how deep it is? Wouldn't want to _lose_ any of you."

With a gruesome chuckle he began walking carefully in Marcus's path. With some trepidation, the others followed.

Nathanial couldn't tell who had triggered the collapse with a misstep, he only knew that the world dropped out from beneath him, and although he reached for Leto's hand as the Monk tried to catch him he barely brushed his fingertips before he felt himself falling with a sickening lurch in his stomach. He seemed to hang in the air forever until a pile of ancient clothing broke his fall. For a few moments he felt as if he couldn't move except to struggle for breath, then a groan beside him made him turn his head to see Whisper and Ta'arnkap on either side. He peered upwards and saw Leto's head silhouetted against the opening of the hole, at least forty feet above their heads. Hooch was whining anxiously from between his feet.

"Is everyone all right?" They heard Marcus's calm voice calling down to them, "Nathanial? Can you hear me?"

"I think so!" Nathanial called back, taking stock of his limbs and finding then bruised, but serviceable.

In response, he felt something brush his face. He jumped in surprise, and found himself looking at one end of a rope. Whisper and Ta'arnkap were already standing, although Whisper kept wincing and holding one hand to her side. Her eyes dared him to ask if she was capable of climbing, even at death's door. Ta'arnkap kept spitting blood near his feet, but seemed more angry than injured. With a shrug, Nathanial jumped up to take hold of the rope and began to pull himself up hand over hand. Torn, bruised and outraged muscles protested this new strain, and he had to stop after ten feet to brace his legs against the side of the sinkhole and rest. He was about to continue when something moved beneath his foot.

Cautiously he studied the area that had shifted. It hadn't been a settling of the entire pile, only of a single point. A sense of dread overtook him as he studied the wall of the sinkhole, and his heart began to race. With half his attention still riveted on the spot he began to scramble up the rope, nearly in a blind panic.

It wasn't until he heard the angry shouts below him that he realized he hadn't warned them about the unknown source of danger. He paused and looked down, only to have a bulge on the wall thrust towards him in a shower of debris. Choked and blinded by the sudden dust, he felt cold, smooth fingers close around his wrist. He shouted in alarm and tried to pull himself out of its grip, but it was like struggling against fingers of stone. He told himself in his panic that he could not let go of the rope, that it was his only chance of escaping. He clung to it and finally managed to wrench his arm from whatever was holding him. He heard a sickening crunch as he did so, like the breaking of dry tinder.

"Hold on!" He heard above him, and gripped the rope tightly as he felt himself hauled several feet upwards. More hands reached out from the debris and clutched at his arms, legs and clothing. Clear of the dust he could see the bones and joints of the skeletal limbs, some still wearing rings or gauntlets of their former owners. He let out a yelp of fear and kicked wildly, breaking one hand off at the arm before the rope was pulled up again. He was so close to the top that he could almost reach it, and allowed himself a breath of relief before the cold fingers closed around his throat.

Nathanial grasped at it with both hands, releasing the rope entirely. The line slid quickly past him, carrying Whisper and Ta'arnkap to safety. Both tried to help him as they moved past, but those up top were working with grim intensity and left them no time to do more than kick at his captors as they flew by. Nathanial struggled with the hand, using all his strength to pry one finger at a time away from his windpipe. Each finger made a sickening noise as it splintered. As spots began to dance before his eyes he felt other hands grasping at him, pulling him into the mass of refuse. He heard shouting above and saw the end of the rope drop in his peripheral vision, but there were too many holding him back from it. The shouts were consumed by the buzzing in his ears. He fought against the urge to let the fire in his mind loose upon the skeletons; fought because he knew that it would set the entire mountain ablaze and take them all with it.

In desperation he finally pried the last finger from his throat and began kicking wildly at those gripping his legs and feet. Reaching out for the rope he caught the end and wound it tightly around his wrist as he reached for the Morningstar with his other. They began to pull him up, and he felt his own bones creak from the strain of being pulled in two directions. Ignoring the hot agony sending needles of pain down the arm holding the rope, he began swinging at the hands still clutching at him. He swung indiscriminately, shattering several hands with each blow even as he gave himself glancing blows on the legs. At last there were few enough for the upward pull to win the tug-o-war. New hands grasped his arms as he reached the top, but these hands were friendly and still encased in flesh. They pulled him clear to the surface and helped support him as he stumbled over the remains of the pile to collapse on solid ground next to Whisper.

He spent precious moments just enjoying the sensation of air moving through his lungs, and only opened his eyes when gentle hands examined the wrist that the rope had been wrapped around. He broke into a cold sweat at the unexpected pain, but fought back a faint by gritting his teeth against it.

"It's broken, and badly," he heard Marcus's voice say. A vial was pressed to his mouth, "Drink this."

He swallowed reflexively as the potion was poured past his clenched teeth. He felt the familiar shuddering sensation wash over him from magical healing and opened his eyes. Marcus was staring intently at him, as if gauging the potion's effect. When his brother pressed the side of his wrist the pain was diminished, but still enough to make Nathanial draw his breath with a sharp hiss. Marcus uncorked a second vial and handed it to him before distributing what he had left to Whisper and Ta'arnkap.

"That's all the potions I have," he announced gravely, "We have a choice, I can go back for more, or we can continue on without them."

"Do we all go back?" asked Whisper, "I don't like the idea of us separating." The look she gave Marcus said more plainly that she didn't like the idea of him out of her sight.

"I can travel faster on my own, and can be back here in two days. If Ramses is still in the castle he'll have to travel this way to leave. Otherwise we can continue looking when I get back."

Impatience warred with self-preservation. Whisper was reluctant to risk losing Ramses' trail, but had to admit they needed to be able to remove injuries quickly, as only magic could. Marcus left them there with a warning to avoid straying too far from each other.

The passing of time could only be marked by the use of the lantern oil. A nervous double-watch was kept in both directions, and Ta'arnkap passed a seemingly bottomless flask around to all who wanted it. The smell from the flask as Nathanial waved it past reminded him of turpentine; his eyes watered just from being near those drinking.

The time passing had a touch of unreality. They slept and ate without benefit of the sun to tell them when. Boris seemed the only one contented to be underground, the others felt a fervent wish for the sight of the open sky, or the feel of a breeze. The creeping claustrophobia made them edgy, and they spoke to each other with great caution for fear of sparking violence. They were huddled morosely around the lantern as their only source of light when a faint sound of voices and scattering stones carried down the tunnel from the direction Marcus had taken. Nathanial and Leto both turned quickly and motioned for the others to be quiet. One of the voices was female, and Nathanial carefully loaded his crossbow. When Marcus turned the corner he was met by an array of swords and drawn arrows. He controlled a reflex to draw his own and the human woman with him ducked quickly behind an outcropping of stone.

"Friends of your's, Marcus?" She ventured hesitantly, and stepped out. She was slight, and looked even more petite next to Whisper. Long brown hair was braided carefully, and her breeches and tunic were impeccably styled. She carried no weapon, but a lute was slung across her back.

"_Who_ is _that_?" Whisper asked with withering scorn.

Marcus shrugged and answered simply, "Lira."

"And why," she continued, "is she here?"

He gave her a level stare which made her struggle to maintain her indignation.

"Because I brought her here."

Ta'arnkap chuckled. "She's what ah call a meat shield. Someone ta throw in front of ye when it gets too thick."

"I rather take offense at that suggestion," the woman said in a lilting dialect of common, "after all, you're assuming you can run faster than I!"

"Marcus," Whisper continued in a deliberate attempt to ignore the newcomer, "we send you for healing potions and you bring back a common tavern bard?"

"I'll have you know that I am not common by any stretch of even such a limited imagination as yours. In fact I'm quite uncommonly good at what I do."

"And what exactly do you do, besides sing and dance for drunken louts?" Whisper's voice was dripping with all the lofty sarcasm she could dredge up.

"Why I can be quite handy in a pinch. You'll see. After a few weeks you'll wonder how you ever got along without me!"

Her smile nearly lit the room without the help of the lantern. Nathanial looked her over and searched Marcus's face for confirmation. He suspected a good reason why Marcus had brought her along, and it had less to do with her usefulness than with her smile. Whisper gave only a disdainful grunt before turning to the task of gathering her gear.

"Now if we're finished wasting time," she announced loftily, "Shall we continue moving? Or had you forgotten we had a purpose here?"

* * *

_"Go away! You are not wanted here!"_

Nathanial jumped and nearly dropped his torch, turning frantically in all directions to find the source of the strange voice. When he noticed that the others were looking at him curiously, he froze, and swallowed hard.

"Did... anyone else hear that?"

He knew from the cautious, pitying expressions on their faces that they had not. Some small part of him rebelled against their pity. _It was NOT imagined! When will they begin to believe me?"_

The only faces where he could discern no pity were those of Boris; who wore an amused expression verging on what Nathanial termed the "freak" look, and Marcus; who merely looked at him in quiet assessment.

"Hear what, Nathanial?" he asked.

"The...the voice..." Nathanial knew that under the focus of his brother's attention his voice was timid, and he despised himself for it.

Marcus took a slow scrutiny of the corridor, then turned back to Nathanial with a carefully neutral expression.

"Perhaps it was an echo."

Nathanial met his eye with outraged challenge for a moment, then deflated and flushed under his brother's disbelief. Marcus held his eyes for another moment, then spoke almost kindly.

"But tell us, if you hear it again."

Nathanial nodded, grateful for at least that much dignity. When they continued, he dropped to the rear of the line.

_"GO!"_

This time it was nearly a shriek that tore through Nathanial's skull. He dropped the torch to put his hands to his ears, and realized it was coming from his own head.

_"GO AWAY!"_

There was a series of gasps ahead of him as it penetrated the minds of the others. Marcus had his sword in hand, and moved in a slow circle, trying to locate the source. He thrust the lantern towards the darkness ahead as if he could reveal whatever what hidden. As he did, light began to flood the tunnel. Torches in sconces lined the corridor ahead, lit seemingly under their own volition with eerie green flame. Looking at his hands and arms in the light, Nathanial thought of fresh mown hay, and corpses rotting in the sun. Leto headed towards one of the wall sconces to investigate while Whisper approached Nathanial with an expression struggling to assert itself as anything but apologetic.

"Was that the voice you heard before?" she asked, with all the apology he needed in her apparent willingness to believe him now. He nodded gravely, with a rush of relief, for he realized now that he'd almost convinced himself that he'd imagined it.

Leto removed a torch from its bracket, despite a fierce hiss of protest from Marcus. The green flame went out, but there was no sign of scorching on the wood. Nathanial was drawn to the fire himself, but found it troubling. After studying it for a moment he casually waved a hand through the flame, then studied his undamaged skin with disappointment.

"An illusion, it's all illusion."

"And if it's illusion," Leto added, "it means there's someone directing it."

"Not if it was set to trigger automatically by our presence," Marcus disagreed calmly.

"Then where," countered Lira, "did that voice come from?"

Boris grunted, "who knows, but in case some of you don't speak Dwarven, it was telling us to leave."

The others looked at him in confusion.

"Confused little man," Lira said gently, "If your mother taught you that was Dwarven she had a vicious sense of humour. The voice was speaking Madrezarian."

"Madrezarian mah hairy brown toίn, that was halflin' iffen ah ever head of it..."

They glared at each other for a rebellious moment before relaxing in the face of the obvious.

"If it was speaking to our thoughts then we would each understand it differently." Marcus said slowly, "which doesn't rule out a magical trap of some kind. Nor," he added, forestalling Leto's protest, "does it rule out someone or something watching us. Everyone needs to be on guard against both."

There was a brief pause before weapons were drawn and the party proceeded nervously down the corridor. As they advanced, Nathanial felt an oddly familiar pressure in his mind. He saw one or two of the others shake their head with puzzled expressions, and knew they felt it too. It grew heavier as they moved towards what appeared to be an open room and Nathanial fought the pressure with his own stubborn will. As he crossed the threshold his thoughts seized on the realization of where he'd felt it before: the sensation was nearly what he'd felt when Leshar attempted to invade his mind to learn his secrets. The surprise of his discovery lowered his guard enough for the force to overwhelm him, and a black numbness paralyzed his thoughts even as he opened his mouth to warn the others.

The party stepped into the room, unaware of the blank slackness that had settled over Nathanial and Ta'arnkap. Their eyes were on the grayish blue mass that blinked stony eyes at them from across the room. It let a silent roar that echoed through their minds, with jaws wide enough to swallow an ogre whole. They stood unmoving, gauging its threat to them with weapons ready. When it charged with a snarl heard only in their heads, they were unprepared for how swiftly it moved.

They were equally unprepared for the attack from behind; Molten ectoplasm flew from Nathanial's trembling hand to Whisper's back, and as Marcus dodged to one side to avoid the creature's claws, he felt Ta'arnkap's dagger bite deep into his side.


	13. Flames of Treachery

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 13: Flames of Treachery**

* * *

_The apples were heavy on the trees. The bees droned in languid expectation around the eaves of the cider mill, where the floor steamed with the sour tang of last year's apple jack. The strange humid scents of rot and growth flavored the same breath as he hid in the dappled fortress of a willow's branches. He stood in the silted shadows of the mill stream that flowed black amongst the willow roots, and watched his feet disappear into the mud as he sank. He knew somehow that he should fight, but the languid heat of the day had somehow infected him, and he could only watch his legs disappear into the muck with detached curiosity. When the water reached his chest, he realized he'd forgotten to raise his arms, and they were trapped in the sucking mud up to the elbows. He studied the smooth eddies of the water as it flowed around him, a gentle pressure that drove him further down. Soon he was cocooned in the soft silt, the stream caressing the top of his head, the strange liquid pressure of the womb on his skin. A high, insistent voice tugged at his mind; screamed a warning. Before he could pay it any attention it was hushed and smoothed away by an unseen force. It was replaced by thoughts of peace, suggestions to sleep..._

* * *

Nathanial awoke to someone slapping him lightly across each cheek with a pair of leather gloves. He protested weakly and tried to put his hands up to deflect the blows, but found them tied securely behind his back. As sensation returned to his body it brought a dawning awareness that his feet and legs were bound as well. When he began to struggle, the blows across his face stopped, leaving his skin hot and stinging. He blinked at the familiar shadow above him outlined against the torchlight. Whisper was not smiling.

"He's awake," she said gravely with a guarded and hostile expression. Nathanial's bewilderment threatened to overwhelm him.

_"Have they gone mad?" _ran through his head like a shout.

He broke the gaze by turning his head to one side where he saw Ta'arnkap equally well trussed with rope. Marcus was standing over the Halfling with his usual inscrutable expression, his shirt front soaked in blood. Hooch was patiently licking the remains of sweat and blood from Ta'arnkap's face and hands.

_"Or have I?"_

That was the more worrisome thought of the two.

When Nathanial turned his head to the right, he saw Boris watching him with a faint smirk, drawing a notched dagger's edge across a sharpening stone. When he noticed the boy's eyes on him, he spat thickly onto the stone to wet it. Nathanial swallowed hard to suppress the taste of rising bile and turned his eyes back to Whisper, who waited patiently for his attention.

"What happened?" He croaked.

She studied him a moment as if suspecting trickery.

"You attacked us."

"Who...When?"

Her eyes were like twin daggers boring into his skull.

"You and Ta'arnkap. When the creature charged us you attacked from the back. You hit me with your spells, Ta'arnkap tried to drop Marcus with his daggers."

"What creature?"

Perhaps it was the complete shock and confusion in Nathanial's expression, or maybe it was her memory of how poorly he lied. Whatever made her decision, Whisper's expression softened somewhat, and she cut the ropes that had begun to deaden the nerves in his hands and feet. He drew himself up to a sitting position and rubbed them furiously to still the feeling of spiders beneath his skin.

"Now," he said with a strained attempt at calm, "what are you talking about?"

She explained, with an air of condescending suspicion, how he had turned against them. He looked to the others for some indication she was joking, but they would not meet his eyes. He drew in his breath.

_"If I can still doubt my sanity, doesn't that mean I'm sane?"_

That sounded dubious somehow, even though it made logical sense. The refrain of _fey-child, murderer, devil spawn... _began once more in the back of his mind.

"I swear to you, to all of you," he added, catching their attention, "that I have no memory of this."

"That'll make me feel a heap of a lot better boy, when you slip a knife into one of us one night while we're sleeping," drawled Boris.

Marcus gave the dwarf a quelling look and stooped down to look Nathanial in the eye. "Tell me truthfully, has anything like this ever happened to you before?"

Nathanial shook his head vehemently, willing Marcus to somehow believe him. His brother's careful consideration was broken, however, when the Halfling broke suddenly into consciousness, spitting out what could only be Halfling curses until he caught sight of his unbound companions.

"sumbiddy git meh out'ta this roop!" Ah'll nobbe tha roosted goose onna spit!"

Whisper stood over him and stilled his struggles with her heel planted firmly on his chest.

"And what about you, little one? What was your idea in sticking your dagger in Marcus's ribs?"

He stopped and looked at her incredulously.

"ach, ye daft beech, if'n y'insist'n tryin'ta turn me 'ed with ye foolishness, ye k'd at leas' untah me furst!"

"I take it you don't remember either?"

"Remembah WHAT ye crazy curse te monkind?"

"Untie him," said Marcus calmly. "One is worrisome, two is beyond coincidence. Something else was at work here."

"Oh?" asked Whisper in challenge, "What exactly?"

"Most likely whatever produced the voices we all heard. Something with that level of control over our minds could possibly have more. Since they both collapsed when the creatures died, I would bet that it was somehow controlling their actions."

For the first time, Nathanial saw that what he'd taken for a shelf of rock along one wall was in fact made of flesh. The creature was enormous, and gave off the fetid odor of a carnivore. Its black blood still oozed like hot tar from the severed head, attracting a lone, fortunate fly. Nathanial's stomach turned in horror that such a thing had driven him like a horse in harness, and had managed to turn him against his friends.

"Untie him," Marcus commanded again.

"Yea, untie me ye bloody minded hoor!"

A flinty look came over Whisper's face, but it was difficult to tell whether it was in reaction to the insult from Ta'arnkap or to the challenge of authority from Marcus. She casually put her full weight on the heel planted in the Halfling's midsection before removing it, and the string of curses was reduced to a wheeze as he gasped for breath. While he was thus incapacitated she used her own dagger to cut his bonds.

Marcus raised one eyebrow at the display of cruelty, but let it lie rather than force a confrontation. Ta'arnkap scrambled to his feet and sullenly collected his daggers from where they had been tossed. A strange, silky voice startled them from the farthest corridor leading off the room.

"Why do you let him arm himself, is he not your prisoner?"

The sound of a half dozen blades drawn from leather scabbards at once sounded sinister as it echoed in the cavern. The stranger, however, seemed unconcerned at the threat to himself. His hands held nothing more threatening than a book and quill pen, but Nathanial felt wary nonetheless.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" barked Whisper.

The stranger blinked owlishly at her. "I am Yadros, madam. And I am searching."

He wore long black robes that shimmered slightly in the torchlight.

"Are you a wizard?" Nathanial demanded.

The stranger considered the question as if it were more complicated than it seemed.

"After a fashion I suppose, although they tend to be clumsier."

At that admission, several of the party tensed and held their weapons more defensively. The stranger, still quite at ease, made a notation in his book.

"Interesting," he muttered to himself. When he finished writing he paused the pen and regarded them once more with a disarming smile.

"And why," he asked, "do you suppose your reaction to wizards is so strongly negative?"

They stared at him, stupefied by the odd manner of questions.

"Yes well," he finally said with some disappointment, "another time, perhaps. I don't suppose that any of you have seen a cup? A mithril cup to be exact, with a series of stars engraved on the rim? I was hoping to ask the guardian there," he gestured to the remains of the beast that had attacked them, "but I don't believe I'll be able to."

They looked at each other in confusion, but the civility of the question demanded a reply despite their suspicion.

"No cups, mithril or otherwise, I'm afraid," said Leto, his tone of voice almost mimicking the cheerful unconcern of the stranger, "but while we're on the subject, did you happen to spot a large man in shiny platemail passing through? With a holy symbol of some sort?"

"I'm afraid I haven't, but then I've only recently arrived myself."

His eyes kept straying back to Whisper, before dragging themselves politely away. Finally her short temper was ignited by the inquisitive glances.

"What?"

"Oh pardon me, Madam, but I couldn't help but overhear the comment on your profession, and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind being interviewed as to why you chose that particular lifestyle?"

Whisper's face took on the stern expression she used when she failed to understand, but suspected fun at her expense. "What profession?"

"Why that of a whore, of course, according to the small gentleman. I didn't think your people held the noble service of the flesh in as high esteem as we do."

The vein in Whisper's forehead began to throb, as those around her struggled with every ounce of will to keep a straight face. Leto lost the struggle with a gasp, and found sharp metal pressing against his throat before he could finish his first guffaw.

"One work, Leto," she snarled, "give me even one tiny excuse."

He carefully swallowed the laughter rising in his throat, and she waited several seconds to ensure it remained swallowed before stalking out of the room in the direction of Ramses' footprints. The moment she disappeared from sight Leto, Ta'arnkap, Nathanial and Lira dissolved helplessly, laughing until they had to gasp for breath.

"You're all right then," Lira gasped as she pounded the shocked newcomer unceremoniously on the back, "She's a bit touched in the head if you ask me!"

Yadros looked at her in mixed horror and wonderment, "She is touched as well? Such are the messengers of the Gods! It is no wonder she became offended by my impertinent questions."

"Ah don't know about te gods, but if ye ask me a li'l touch would do te frosty witch sum good!" announced Ta'arnkap with some bitterness as he rubbed the new bruise forming on his solar plexus. Leto snorted, and Marcus gave the Halfling a stifling look.

"Enough," he said firmly, "we're here for a reason if you'll remember."

Ta'arnkap responded with a grumble, which turned to a sneer as the stranger responded eagerly.

"Perhaps I could be of help?"

Marcus looked at him levelly, but Nathanial noticed that one hand still hovered by his sword hilt. "Could you now?"

"I believe so, especially if you have anything that belonged to him. No? Well then I can at least make him easier to track."

He muttered a spell and left them all blinking furiously as the room became as bright as daylight. When his eyes adjusted, even he could see the slight depressions in the dust that were Ramses' tracks. Marcus studied the wizard for a moment, then nodded curtly and set off along the trail. The others followed, careful to keep the newcomer in the middle where he could be watched.

When the tracks apparently ended at a solid wall, Yadros showed his usefulness once again. By speaking some secret words and passing his hand over the wall, a door was revealed in the stone, outlined in a faint glow. There was a growl behind them as they bent to search for a handle, and Nathanial turned to see Hooch backing away from the doorway with raised hackles. A low snarl rose in the dog's throat as he reached Leto's side and stopped, trembling. Leto laid one hand on his head to soothe him, but Hooch only whined anxiously at him before snarling once more at the secret door.

Marcus gave Yadros an appraising look.

"Do animals often react so to your magic?"

"Not that I've noticed before. Either the creature is unusually sensitive to magical auras, or it is reacting to something beyond the door."

"Or perhaps," said Whisper acidly, "he finally caught his own scent and found it as frightening as we do. If Ramses passed this way, we must follow. I for one, am not willing to give up after coming this far!"

"No one is suggesting we give up, Whisper," Nathanial spoke up with a mix of irritation and impatience, "But that doesn't mean we have to walk blindly into who-knows-what."

"Do we have a choice, Boy?"

Pausing a heartbeat to let her victory of the final word sink in, Whisper pushed on one side of the glowing outline. The stone swiveled outward with a groaning of dust and age. Just beyond, they could see a dimly lit room, and at the far end a figure stood in the gleaming armor of a paladin.

Nathanial forgot his own advice and rushed in with a welcoming shout. Marcus's warning went unheard, and his attempt to grab Nathanial by the shirt and stop him missed by inches. He was halfway into the room before he realized his mistake. Ramses was standing, but chained to the wall. His instincts gave him barely enough time to duck before an enormous curved blade whistled through the air where his neck had been. The second swing struck sparks against Whisper's falchion as she moved to intercept the attack. Her opponent, an enormous man in black leather regarded her with surprised contempt as he slowly forced her sword arm down to the floor. A chittering noise above drew everyone else's attention upward, seeking the nature of this new threat. Chains wove through the room like a metal spider web, and a many-legged creature of pitted steel and corrupted flesh hung from it. The man facing Whisper smiled toothily at their horrified reaction and slammed a fist into her jaw. She reeled backwards, but kept both her feet and her sword. Nathanial scrambled for the wall by the entryway and drew his crossbow on the man, but Marcus shouted to them to fire upon the creature of chain as he leapt to Whisper's aid.

Like other battles, Nathanial felt as if he were moving too slowly against time. He aimed, fired and re-loaded with automatic effort, and without apparent effect on the monster above them. Twice he threw himself to the floor in time to avoid the spiked chain it swung at them with whiplike speed. It was the second time he ducked that he heard the chain connect beside him. He looked up to see Whisper sliding to the floor, impaled on the spike that went through her body and out the other side. Her eyes were open and unblinking as blood erupted from her mouth.

"Get her out!" Marcus ordered above the din, and his calm authority gave Nathanial the strength to move. Discarding his useless crossbow, he grabbed Whisper's arms. Boris leapt to help him, and together they dragged her from the room. Nathanial rummaged through his pack for a shirt and tried to staunch the blood flow from her body, but it died to a trickle, and then stopped. There was a moment of irrational hope before he realized she was dead.

A spreading numbness stupefied him, and would have left him there staring at her corpse if Boris hadn't taken him by the shoulders and shaken him into awareness.

"There's time to cry later Boy! They still need your help in there. If there's any time for your spooky mind tricks, it's now!"

The dwarf spat to one side to avert the evil eye, a gesture Nathanial remembered from the old men back in Franklin. The sight of it now made him shiver. Hooch barked and snarled at the open doorway, but would not approach. Under the Dwarf's stern gaze he stumbled to his feet and lurched back towards the chamber. He dodged Leto and Lira, who dragged the still form of Ramses to lie beside Whisper, and let them brush past him once again as they charged grimly back into the battle. He took a deep breath, which steadied him somewhat, and began to focus.

He gathered his fear, his gut-wrenching sorrow over the death of his friends, and his fierce desire to protect those still standing, mustering them all into a hot rage. His vision blurred with a reddish haze as phantasmal flames surrounded him. When he stepped into the room, he surveyed the fight dispassionately, as if he'd separated from his body. The creature above was a more immediate threat than the swordsman, he could see that now. He reached for its mind and found a writhing, alien mass of hatred.

Lighting the branch afire at the campsite was a delicate reaching, a gradual agitation of the wood's substance. Against this enemy, Nathanial knew it would not be enough. He took what had built up inside him and struck out at the thing's mind with all his strength. The force of the blow and its backlash drove him to his knees with a shriek of pain, cradling his head in his hands. The fighting lulled as the chains fell still, and all turned to look. The creature sat motionless for a single breath, then toppled from its steel web. Leto leapt back against the wall in time to avoid being crushed by its falling body.

A gurgling noise from the other end of the room marked the death of the other enemy. Marcus took advantage of the distraction to slip his sword through the base of the man's neck and into his skull. With a calm that belied the tension in the room, he strode over to the fallen spider creature and stabbed it carefully in several places before wiping his sword clean.

"In case it was only stunned," he answered their confused stares, and pulled Nathanial to his feet. "Are you all right?"

Nathanial's head throbbed, but it was a dull ache compared to the piercing pain it had been. He wiped the back of one shaking hand across his face and found that his nose had bled. Unsure of his control over his voice, he simply nodded to Marcus and straightened up with some effort.

Marcus gripped his shoulder reassuringly and smiled, "Whatever you did, you did it well."

Nathanial nodded again, aware that a grin was spreading crazily across his face. For the first time, he was proud of whatever oddity gave him his gift. Such pride seemed somehow arrogant, even dangerous if he allowed it free rein. But for now he was content to savor it for a short time.

Marcus was bleeding from a cut on his shoulder, but the others had gotten through miraculously unscathed. Remembering Whisper and Ramses, Nathanial took a deep breath to collect his wits and stepped towards the door.

For a split moment, it felt as if his footfall had dislodged a loose paving stone, for he stumbled and nearly fell. The others looked around in surprise as other parts of the floor began to shift. Pieces of chain fell from the ceiling and chipped the stone beneath their feet, while a great cloud of dust shook loose from the walls and rose around them. Slowly, the floor began to move in a great circle, dragging them with it. A groaning shriek of tortured rock filled their ears, growing louder with every moment.

Leto leapt clear to the doorway and caught one end of a chain as it moved past him. He gathered it up quickly and braced himself against the door frame.

"Catch it!" he cried.

Marcus caught the chain with one hand and Lira with the other, lifting her easily to within reach of the rescue line. The unflappable Yadros chanted a few words and rose several inches off the floor, floating himself to safety. The room's few ornaments began to waver, then fall towards the center of the room as if caught in a mighty wind. Nathanial saw a hole begin to open in the center of the floor like a vortex around which everything turned, then fell. He felt himself pulled towards it as if some force was reaching out to seize him. He scrambled over the stones using his hands to climb as if he were scaling a wall. A hand moved into the edge of his vision and he clutched at it, losing his footing at last as the remains of the floor fell inward. Marcus pulled him easily through the entryway and helped Leto push the stone door closed. The silence that fell after the roar of the room's collapse was almost deafening. Nathanial shook his head to clear the ringing sound and looked around to see who was left.

"Where's Boris?" he asked, with a pang of grief for the Dwarf, who had kept his head so well, and helped Nathanial keep his.

"Got'a better question fer ye Boy," answered Ta'arnkap with growing suspicion, "where's Whisper?"

They all scrambled to their feet in disbelief. Next to Ramses' body was the blood soaked shirt Nathanial had used to staunch Whisper's wound. Her body, and all her equipment, were gone.


	14. Fire of Life

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 14: Fire of Life**

* * *

_"We should have killed him the moment we laid eyes on him."_

_"Truly?__ Having raised no hand against you?"_

_"But he would."_

_"While the deaths of hundreds are against him, yours may not be. For unlike the slaughtered tribe, in your case he could be considered justified."_

_"Justified? Does the reason I attacked him matter not at all?"_

_"We are neither a court of law, Nathanial Holt, nor one of justification. It will be weighed. Everything will be weighed. Shall we continue?"_

_"Yes...wait. Is it possible to peek ahead? I want to know if the others manage to finish off the murdering wretch."_

_"That story is no longer yours, even if it becomes your past. You are the one on judgment here. Shall we continue?"_

_"Yes, let's. For eternal beings, you are pretty impatient."_

* * *

"But...why? Why would anyone steal a body?" Nathanial asked with some bewilderment. Marcus knelt briefly by the imprint in the dust where Whisper's corpse had been laid. Nathanial saw his brow furrow with anger as he silently traced the Dwarf's footsteps with his eyes. Marcus went to the backpack discarded by the dwarf as too cumbersome for full-out flight, and drew a folded piece of parchment from within. He glanced at it quickly before handing it and the pack to the others before setting out in a determined stride.

Nathanial read aloud from the parchment Leto handed back to him as he hurried after his brother.

"Reward of gold in the sum of 50,000 for the return of woman depicted below, or her identifiable corpse..." He paused in his reading to scan the photo and description. "It's definitely her. Where did she get this?"

"Markettown, I believe. I saw something similar in another bar. Apparently so did Boris."

"That flea-bitten, half-pint thieven whelp of a pig!" exclaimed Ta'arnkap, "If anyone's goin'ta turn a profit from tha beech's body, it should b' us!"

Leto poked the Halfling hard in the small of the back, earning additional curses.

"Not that you're not being your usual practical self, shortstuff," the monk hissed, "But it's not so much about profiting from her death, as it is preventing someone else from doing so."

"I don't think that's what Marcus has in mind either," puffed Nathanial as he dropped back to keep pace with the other two. He was watching the set of his brother's jaw, and wondered if he blamed himself for bringing the dwarf amongst them.

"She was a warrior," Marcus replied easily as he ran. The three conspirators jumped guiltily, unaware they'd been overheard. "No matter what I thought of her personally. She died a warrior's death, and deserves respect for it. Respect does not entail allowing her to be dragged across the land by a bounty hunter."

Nathanial looked at him pointedly. He knew, somehow, that Marcus was not telling them everything. He also knew that despite his focus on the trail in front of him, his brother could see his expectant look from the corner of his eye. With some exasperation (but no shortage of breath, despite their speed), Marcus continued.

"And yes, I have a hunch that something very bad will result if she is returned to her father, alive or dead. I have heard rumors of necromancy, and worse. The hunch tells me that the world might just be safer if he is left wondering and searching for as long as possible. I wasn't going to mention it, since the first reason should be enough for any of you."

The last was said in such a sarcastic tone that Nathanial withered slightly and dropped back to his companions. They came as close to sprinting as they could, encumbered by their gear and the short stride of the Halfling. They did not encounter Boris before reaching the entrance to the keep, and so they began to search for signs of his passage. While the newcomer floated nonchalantly to the surface of the cave-in they'd first descended through, Marcus hunted the ground around the entrance for tracks. Nathanial shifted the two packs to a more comfortable position on his shoulders, wondering if there was time to combine them into one and get rid of unnecessary weight. He watched Marcus for signs of halting, and when his brother stopped by the horses and began to unload his own gear, Nathanial went over in hopes of news.

"Boris didn't come out this way, he may be holed up somewhere inside the castle, waiting to sneak out after us. I'm going back in alone, as I can move faster."

"I can run! Let me come with you!"

Marcus looked at him with a ghost of a smile. "I know you can, Nathanial, I know." He removed his pack and all but one waterskin, and tied them onto his saddlebags. He spoke quietly to his horse in a language Nathanial couldn't quite catch, then glanced suspiciously at the others.

"Nathanial, I need fighters up here in case he comes this way..."

"But Leto and Ta'arnkap..."

"I know they can fight. What I don't know is if I can trust them to wait here for me afterwards, and keep Whisper's body safe instead of running off to claim the reward themselves."

Frustration over being balked warred with pride over Marcus's trust. Nathanial searched his brothers' face for signs that he was being mislead in order to keep him there. Marcus seemed to sense it, and some of his gruffness left him. When he was about to tie an ornate sword to the saddle he hesitated, then turned and handed it to Nathanial.

"Here, hold onto this for me. When I return, I'll teach you to use it."

He also handed over the items Ramses had given him for safe-keeping. Nathanial held the sword gingerly by the scabbard. A tingle went up his arms and stirred the hairs at the nape of his neck.

"What is it?" he asked with some awe.

Marcus strapped the last dagger onto his boot and raised an eyebrow at his brother.

"It's a sword."

Nathanial thought he saw a glint of humor lurking in his eyes, but when he blinked it was gone, and Marcus had turned away to begin the chase through the ruins of the keep. He sprinted after him, and finally caught up at the edge of the cave-in. Marcus turned a final time and gripped his forearm in a warrior's greeting.

"Take care of that sword, its something of a family legacy. If I haven't returned by the morning of the second day, don't come looking for me. Continue the way we've been going. It will take you towards Madresar, past the Lansharian Plateau. I'll find you."

"But..." Nathanial protested the idea of leaving his brother behind in unknown danger.

Marcus smiled slightly and shook his head, "I'll _find_ you. Just continue east."

With that he stepped deliberately over the edge of the gap and was gone. Nathanial felt a keen sense of loss, and hoped that he wouldn't have to make the choice between disobeying his brother's orders, and leaving him behind. He retrieved his crossbow from the pack and loaded it, settling himself within a clear line of sight of the cave-in. He propped the crossbow on his knee, and hoped to see the Dwarf's head within range.

One hand rested on the scabbard of the sword at his side.

* * *

There was no sight of Boris or Marcus by dawn of the first day. Leto and Ta'arnkap took turns spelling Nathanial on watch over the only known entrance into the lower levels, while Lira and Yadros talked to those off-duty, trying to keep their spirits up. Nathanial told them about Marcus's orders, and Lira brightened at the mention of Madresar.

"I dare say it's been years since I've visited that charming little kingdom."

Nathanial quirked a grin at her, as she'd shared stories of some of her more risky ventures, "Long enough to avoid prosecution?"

"Why, Boy, I'm offended that you would simply _assume_, based on a few isolated incidents in my sordid youth, that my life consisted, until now, of running amuck of the law."

"Hasn't it?"

"I'll have you know that I'm considered an upstanding citizen in many cities of this continent, and my skills as a bard are legendary as far away as Lhansovar."

"Ah've never heard of ye," Ta'arnkap chimed in from where he'd sat and closed his eyes after his shift on watch, "but ah've sure heard enough _out_ of ye today, as I'm tryin' te sleep."

Lira flipped a rude gesture to the corner.

Yadros was brooding, his face as down as they'd seen it.

"Madresar," he asked tentatively, "is that not the country where magic has been corrupted?"

"I don't know about corrupted, really, but I know better than to buy anything enchanted from there. The wizards are pretty bloody useless. Saw a bloke who bought a healing potion once, and he ended up growing a third arm. Not that it wasn't _useful_, come to think about it..."

Nathanial managed a mental image of the man and began to laugh. He remembered some stories he'd picked up in taverns throughout his travels.

"I heard about a man who couldn't afford a regular love potion, but he had just enough for a Madresarian one. He was desperate enough to buy it, and it worked, at first. But even though she fell head over heels for him, the fact that the potion turned her into a man was a bit of a strain on their relationship!"

The stories and laughter didn't keep him from worrying, but they did distract him enough to prevent him from being overcome by his fears. When Ta'arnkap awoke and relieved Leto at his post, Nathanial took the opportunity to try and sleep. It felt like a long time before he drifted off, but as the conversation drifted over him, scattered with musical laughter, he was comforted. The darkness of dreams reached up and enfolded him.

* * *

Leto was the only one awake in the outer keep when the stranger approached. To all the world he looked asleep, but in his meditative state he was aware of the world around him to an extent that would surprise anyone who knew. Of course, it was often advantageous to _appear_ oblivious, so he kept this secret to himself.

Now he watched the stranger approach. He kept his senses attuned in hopes of some clue to his intentions, but could smell no trace of the acrid tang hostility left on the skin of an attacker. In fact, he didn't even sense a weapon. This was worrisome, as those with weapons were prone to relying exclusively on them, and were easier to assess.

A bird landed on the man's shoulder, reeking of carrion.

"Sir," it said in a gravelly, but intelligible voice that nearly startled Leto into movement, "there's a person, is that who you're looking for?"

"No, Hugin, but then he may be traveling with him. Let us say hello."

"Really, sir, are you sure he's awake, or even alive?"

There was the flapping sound of wings, and Leto felt a sudden weight on his shoulder as the Raven landed and peered at him curiously. The bird tapped gently on the side of his head.

"Wake up, sleepy! My master wishes to speak to you."

Leto's senses were extended, so he felt the passing air of the object coming towards him. It gave him time to duck to one side, and the dagger nearly parted the bird's feathers before striking the wall. The bird let out a frightened squawk only inches from Leto's ear, leaving him half-deafened for a moment.

"What te feck ye duck fer? Ah nearly had te mangy crow fer supper!" Ta'arnkap spit.

A remarkable struggle passed over the Raven's body as it seemed to choke. Losing the struggle, it let out a strangled "FECK!" before drooping in despair. Shooting a sincerely dirty look at the Halfling, Hugin returned to his master's shoulder and received a mild rebuke.

"Yes sir, sorry sir," he muttered in reply, before giving Ta'arnkap another accusing stare. "As for you, I am hardly mangy, nor a common crow!"

"Feck off ye flyin' dustrag, I wann't talking te ye."

A pained look crossed the crow's face as the choking struggle began. This time it lasted nearly ten seconds before the word burst from him in a squawk.

"FECK!"

The bird shook himself and neatened a few feathers with his beak, as if he felt suddenly unclean.

"Sorry, master, you know I try..."

The man nodded gravely, "It is good that you try, but I expect you to make progress in your self-discipline."

"Yes Sir."

Leto, having choked back laughter at the bird's antics, unfolded himself from the intricate fold of legs he'd assumed for meditation and stood, leaning nonchalantly against the stone wall.

"So, stranger, who might you be?" he drawled, tensing for an attack without moving from his lazy slouch.

"I am Gamaliel, and I do not mean to disturb you. I am looking for someone you may have seen..."

The stranger broke off and his eyes snapped to a point behind Ta'arnkap. The Halfling saw the movement of shadow behind him and turned quickly, reaching for his daggers. He relaxed only slightly when he saw the new Wizard, Yadros behind him.

Yadros spoke excitedly to the newcomer in a strange, silvery language which none of the others understood. The stranger answered in the same language before the two embraced.

"Yadros," Lira spoke up as she emerged sleepily from within the keep, "what the hell is going on, and who the hell is that?"

Caught off guard, the bird on Gamaliel's shoulder had no chance to fight back the word erupting from him.

"HELL!"

All eyes turned to the creature, who looked distinctly embarrassed. His master looked stern and ordered the bird away. Hugin flew to a perch at the top of a crumbling wall and turned his back pointedly on the individuals below. Gamaliel regarded him gravely for a moment, then turned to Lira with a slight bow.

"I am Gamaliel, and something of a cousin to Yadros. I have been drawn here without knowing why, but I now have some idea. Yadros tells me that a messenger of the Gods has fallen amongst you?"

* * *

Nathanial woke with a start, shocked that he'd drifted off on duty. His crossbow was still resting on his knee, pointed at the opening in the floor. He had no way of knowing how long he'd dozed. He heard voices drifting in from the outer room of the keep, one of them unknown. He was weighing the dangers in leaving his post to investigate when Ta'arnkap came stomping in. Nathanial did his best to look awake and alert, but the Halfling wasn't really paying attention.

"Dinna know why they'd _want_ te bring te bitch back te life. Awl this mumba jumba looks t'me like necri'mancy..."

Nathanial cleared his throat, wondering if he'd heard correctly.

"What's going on?"

Ta'arnkap sighed as he flopped down against a wall, drawing a throwing dagger and aiming readily at the opening in the floor where they still expected Boris to try and sneak out from.

"Ye got me Boy, but tha' southern pansy in the robes is talkin' bout people comin' back from te dead, an if'n I han't seen te body with me own eyes ah'd swear he was bloo'y daft, but there she is, breathin' like she never was dead..."

"Who? Who's breathing?"

"Ye deef Boy? Ah'm talkin' bout _Whisper_!"

Nathanial pressed the tips of his fingers in the hollows at his temples, in hopes of staving off the dull ache that was forming there.

"Ta'arnkap, What about Whisper?"

"Eh, not listenin' t'a word ah say! Go'in see fer yeself then, an'quit pesterin me!"

Nathanial rolled to his feet and hurried out into the outer room of the keep, where his friends clustered to one side in hushed, worried conversation. Near the entrance a man knelt in an attitude of intense prayer. Before him, suspended in mid-air, was Whisper's corpse.

_"Not a corpse?"_ Nathanial half-wondered to himself, looking around for signs that Marcus had returned. The body had no injuries upon it, and while it was unmoving, he caught the slight rise and fall of the chest as she breathed. He stumbled over to Yadros, where he stood watching with a satisfied smile.

"What is going on?" he choked out. Yadros looked up from where he'd just made a notation in his book.

"hrmm? Oh, hello there boy. It's going well indeed. I was afraid Gamaliel did not have the spell compliment for a full resurrection, but he has successfully sought intervention from his deity to accomplish the task."

"Is...is that HER?"

Yadros looked from Nathanial to the floating body with some confusion, "Yes, of course. We had a bit of her blood, you see, at least enough to focus the effect. She will be unconscious for some time yet, but will awaken with all memory and personality intact."

Nathanial's temper snapped under the strain of bewilderment and outrage. He grabbed the front of Yadros' robes and shoved him back against the wall. The Wizard's book and pen dropped from his hands and clattered to the floor.

"_What_," Nathanial snarled, "_did you_ _DO to her, Necromancer?"_

Yadros looked startled for the first time since they'd known him, but his face quickly settled into more serene lines. He said a quick incantation and touched one finger to Nathanial's chest, throwing him suddenly backwards across the room in a shower of sparks. Nathanial coughed painfully and struggled to sit up. He rubbed his chest, which felt as if it had suddenly been filled with angry wasps. Yadros was smiling sympathetically at him.

There was the sound of steel on leather as Lira drew a dagger, measuring Yadros with evil intent. Leto gripped his quarterstaff loosely at the ready, and a low growl came from Hooch. Yadros held up one hand to forestall them, the smile still on his face.

"I am not a Necromancer Boy, nor have I harmed Whisper in any way. I have judged by your reaction that your priests do not have the ability to reverse the effects of death when the Gods find worth in the deceased. A pity. But a great blessing for you that we are here. Gamaliel has asked his Gods to bring her back, and they have bestowed their benevolence upon her. The result is not undead, but truly alive and unchanged from what she was before."

"But how," Nathanial protested, "how is this possible?"

"Through the gift of the Gods, who give us life, Boy." The stranger answered from where he knelt. A golden glow enveloped the floating body, and she gasped before settling into the steady breathing of sleep. "She is sleeping peacefully now, and will do so until late this evening."

Yadros nodded and flicked his hand, sending her floating across the room and onto a waiting bedroll. When she had settled gently down, he turned back to his cousin and began chatting in their own language. The group gathered away from them, but where they could see Whisper's sleeping form.

"Really, I've seen some odd things, and heard rumors," Lira began, "of priests who performed such miracles. I even ran into a soldier who claimed he'd been dead and brought back. Of course he was quite a bit into a bottle when he told the story..."

"I don't know, but I somehow don't like it," Nathanial responded warily, "It seems like something evil to do, but then how can it be evil if it accomplishes good?"

"All we can really do," answered Leto, "Is wait for her to wake. If she acts strangely, we can discuss what to do. If not, well then like it or not we're present at a miracle."

"And how do you propose we judge what 'strange' behaviour is, in Whisper's case? If she wakes up acting nice to everyone and able to take a joke, we know we should kill her immediately?"

She managed to elicit a ghost of a smile from Nathanial, and an outright chuckle from the monk. She noticed the boy was nervously clutching a scabbard at his side, and recognized it as Marcus's.

"We wait," Nathanial decided, wondering suddenly why the others seemed to listen to him in times like these. It wasn't as if he had any special insight on what to do. "We wait for her to wake up, or for Marcus to return. Tomorrow morning we'll decide whether to keep waiting for Marcus, or to follow his instructions a day late and continue towards Madresar."

"Ok, then we wait," Leto agreed. Their eyes turned to the sleeping body in the corner, as they settled into a subdued silence.

_"Like a vigil for the dead," _Nathanial thought to himself, _"Except who expected the dead to rise?"_

* * *

_Authors' Notes:_

_Sorry about the whole dead-one-chapter, alive-the-next thing, I'm afraid Resurrections were allowed in the game, and Whisper's an important enough character to keep alive, while this incident has a major bearing later in the story. I tried to make it as believable as possible for the characters who would not have had knowledge of such a possibility, especially Nathanial who has yet to shake a certain country-boy superstition where death is concerned._

_Authors' notes: Sorry about the updating gap. I had a falling out with the people who played many of these characters, and didn't feel much like re-visiting them. On the other hand, Boy was, and always will be mine, and I'd like to see him through to the end._

_heeeeere's__ Hugin! This poor, turret's-stricken bird has been a favorite NPC since its introduction. You have no idea how much fun it is to have an NPC around who has to roll a will save every time it hears a curse word to avoid repeating it. We must have killed several hours of game time torturing the poor thing, and the general language of the gaming group got considerably worse after Hugin's introduction! Of course, this also means that, starting with this chapter, the offensive language may actually be spelled out on occasion. However once I get the point across I'll look for ways around gratuitous cursing from the bird._


	15. Charring Choices

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 15: Charring Choices**

* * *

"_You won't kill me so easily."_

"_You've said that before, bastard child, and I've beaten you!"_

"_That was many years ago."_

"_You stand there before me bleeding, and still think yourself a challenge? Look at you, you can barely stand!"_

"_Then I will fight on my knees."_

"_You think you are somehow brave? You are a bastard to the family name you have taken, a traitor to the people who have treated you better than you deserved."_

"_My dear sister, you talk... far too much for your age."_

"_Do not call me that, I will have no half-blood bastard brother!"_

"_I promise...not to...hold it...against you."_

"_Weakening, bastard child? I will have mercy on you. Tell me where father is hiding and I will make it painless for you."_

"_You...assume...I know..."_

"_Damn you, traitor! And damn him for creating you and your kind."_

"_I am...already damned...you cannot...send me further... into hell."_

"_No? But I can speed you on your journey. Get up! Take up your sword, if you can. Die on your feet or knees, I care not either way, Marcus."_

* * *

Nathanial dreamed uneasy dreams of Whisper's undead corpse lurching after him with cold, tattered skin and a mouth of maggots. He moaned and kicked in his sleep to fight off the black-eyed zombie whose wooden fingers closed around his arm and pulled him to her as if to kiss. No amount of struggling could break her iron grip. She leaned down to speak with her lips inches from his own. _"Come" _she muttered wetly, insects streaming from her mouth and the putrid stench robbing him of breath, _"join me, Nathanial, you will find death your lover." _In the dream he shrieked, only to have her press her lips to his, the decay filling his mouth. He gagged and wrenched himself away, passing from the dreaming state to waking

"Hey Boy, you're having a nightmare, wake up!"

Nathanial peeked up cautiously and saw Whisper shaking him by the arm. He closed his eyes again with a whimper, then exploded in a shriek and scrambled away from the dead girl.

Whisper yelped in surprise as she lost her balance and fell backwards onto the floor. There was a flurry of noise and activity as people scrambled for weapons in reaction to the alarm, then mutterings as they determined the cause.

"Do you MIND, Boy?" Whisper grumbled as she dusted off her leather armor, "you almost gave me a heart attack!"

Nathanial struggled with the irony of Whisper standing before him making a joke about death and fell back with a strangled groan. Leto and Lira exchanged grins.

"Too many responses to choose from," Leto said with a sigh, "I'll never be able to pick."

Whisper gave him an evil glare, then noticed Nathanial frozen grimace as he stared at her.

"What, Boy?"

His mouth opened and closed without actual words. When she turned away in disgust he secretly made the sign against the evil eye at the back of her head.

"The wizards, or whatever they are, have explained what happened to me," she continued impatiently, "I'm not entirely sure I believe them yet, but at any rate the result is the same. What I don't know is how long we're supposed to wait for Marcus."

She fixed Nathanial with a steady stare, but it was Yadros who answered.

"I believe he mentioned the morning of the second day. Which was, of course, yesterday."

"_Yesterday?"_ Whisper exclaimed, "what are we still doing here then?"

"Well Whisper," chimed in Lira, "Some of us were waiting for you to finish rising from the dead"

Nathanial let out a strangled gurgle. The others looked at him with expressions of amusement, sympathy and scorn. Whisper nodded decisively and knelt to roll up her bedding and tie it closed. He watched nervously as she checked her weapons and began attaching them to her belt or her horse's saddle.

"Where are you going?" Nathanial demanded.

She straightened in confusion, "I thought Marcus asked us not to wait for him?" She waited while Nathanial nodded hesitantly. "Then I think we should do as he asks. Ramses is buried; we have finished what we came here for."

"But..." he protested, "You're just going to leave him? What if he's in trouble? What if he's hurt and can't get away to meet us? He risked everything to go after you, to get you back from the bounty hunter, and when the roles are reversed you're just going to leave?"

Her expression softened and for once she seemed uncertain.

"Nathanial, I.."

"And he has some ITEMS he got from Ramses...have you forgotten?"

She blinked at the transition from emotional appeal to duty. Nathanial cast around for some other excuse that might change her mind. He was choosing words for a plea to her warrior ethic when he was thankfully interrupted.

"Master, riders are approaching, two approaching!" called Gamaliel's raven as he soared in through a gap in the roof. He came to a light landing on his master's shoulder, who gave an approving nod.

"Excellent Hugin, thank you."

It seemed forever before the sound of hooves on the cobblestones began to echo into the room. Everyone inside was pressed against the walls, weapons readied for any attack. The sharp note of the hooves seemed ghostly over the harsh breathing of the ready fighters, and the tension built steadily as the minutes passed by. The hooves paused as they drew closer, and the muffled impact of feet told them the riders had dismounted. Nathanial strained his ears and caught the sound of a weapon drawn, then the soft scrap of booted feet near the door.

"Come out with weapons sheathed, in the name of Kalidine."

"Kiss me'arse!" Ta'arnkap shouted cheerfully, "Ye come in wi'weapon unshaythed an' see how long ye'last!"

Whisper hissed at him to be quiet. When there was no response, Nathanial grew nervous. Two fighters were challenging a dozen; were they so certain of their abilities? Was the invoking of Kalidine an indication that they were neither robbers nor agents of Khezrial, as he feared? He looked around at those he considered friends and wondered who was to be killed this time, if they fought. Or perhaps them all? He remembered the deaths he'd seen in the last few weeks, and the thought of battle made him weary beyond measure. He knew he had to speak if more bloodshed was to be avoided.

"Why don't you sheath your weapon and step back from the door," he shouted, "then we'll send some of us out with their weapon sheathed to talk."

"That is acceptable," the voice responded after only a short moment of deliberation.

Whisper and Leto began a frantic protest under their breath as Nathanial clipped his morningstar to his belt and moved towards the doorway. Both moved immediately to follow him. He stopped at the door and peered cautiously out at the two men. Their weapons were safely sheathed and they had moved some distance from the entryway in accordance with the deal. The one was a hulking brute that reminded him of the drawings of orcs in childrens' picture books. Jagged scars lined his misshapen face and his eyes were small beneath a bristling black browline. The other was a slim, tall creature with lizardlike skin and eyes and a slight reptilian cast to his features. They would fit the highway robber mold to perfection if not for the armor emblazoned with the holy symbol of a Paladin of Kalidine. It was the same as that which Ramses wore, and Nathanial put a cautious bet on the fair-mindedness of the creature in it, regardless of its form. He looked at the crowd that had formed up near the doorway, and realized with shock that they were waiting for him to give some sort of signal, as if they were deferring to his decision. He tried to control a rising stutter in his voice and sound calm.

"I'll go, with Whisper and Leto. I'm the least threatening and they can get me out if it gets ugly. But he is wearing Paladin armor."

Ta'arnkap snorted, "so th'git has a pretty bit o'brass, dinna mean he's wot he appears."

Nathanial nodded his understanding and took a deep breath before stepping warily out into the sunlight. He felt Whisper and Leto flanking him to either side and hoped she had remembered to put away her sword. He saw the Paladin's eyes narrow as he surveyed the three, taking note of their weapons. They advanced to within fifteen feet of the newcomers and stopped.

"What do you want?" Nathanial asked simply.

The Paladin studied him for a moment, and Nathanial could feel the doubt in his mind at being questioned by one so young.

"You are in possession of stolen items, which I have been charged to retrieve. I must also take you into custody for charges against you for holding these stolen items."

Nathanial tried to keep his face neutral, but could tell the Paladin had already read the truth on it.

"We have stolen nothing."

"The person charged with the theft is a man named Monk. We have been hired by the owners of the items to retrieve them."

"Who hired you?" Whisper asked aggressively, "and how exactly is she going to prove they were stolen?" Her hand twitched towards her sword sheath and the Paladin eyed her warily.

"The woman who hired us gave a description of you and the items themselves. She will have to prove to a magistrate that she owns them, but in the meantime I have been charged with their safe-keeping."

Nathanial could tell the man was telling the truth, at least as far as he knew it. He had the same look Ramses took on when a wrong was being righted. But as to how to convince the Paladin he'd been lied to was beyond him, especially when he'd been so skillfully mislead. Something was nagging at him to tell the whole story as honestly as possible, but if he was mistaken he could be revealing valuable information to an agent of Khezrial. He snuck a glance to his companions, but they were only looking at him expectantly, waiting to follow his lead. Hysterical trains of thought came to him, wondering why the people who dismissed him so easily would suddenly throw him out front now that the stakes were so high.

"_No one threw you anywhere Nate me mate," _he told himself sternly, _"You stepped up to the lead on this one all by yourself. You've got the reins, so do something with them."_

He sighed and felt himself deflate, giving in to his instinct. He looked levelly at the Paladin, who showed a flicker of surprise at the frank expression.

"Why don't you and I sit down and talk about what really happened?"

He felt Whisper and Leto stiffen in protest, but they remained thankfully silent. The Paladin gave him a slow nod and gestured to a broken piece of column nearby where they could sit. His companion tapped him on the shoulder, gesturing with a slim glass tube.

"Want I should send the message to her now?"

The Paladin shook his head, "Not just yet, let us first consider the situation in its entirety."

The man shrugged and stuck the tube back into a belt pouch. Nathanial glanced towards the dark doorway and saw Ta'arnkap's eyes gleam. The Halfling began making his way stealthily towards the orcish creature.

Nathanial perched on the broken column and organized his thoughts. He glanced up at the Paladin at one point and gave a ghost of a smile, remembering Ramses.

"Did you hear that we had one of your order with us?"

The Paladin looked taken aback at this unexpected opening.

"No, I had not."

"Ramses. We were separated and came here to look for him, but he was dead before we managed. We buried him over there, by the Kaldeshian temple."

The Paladin's eyes followed his gesture and stared eagerly at the building with the newly broken windows.

"I would hear of how he fell, and pay my respects to him before we depart. But first tell me how a Paladin of Kalidine fell into your company."

He told their story, from the first encounter with Monk until the moment of the riders' approach. He left out some details, but avoided any embellishments. He saw Whisper pacing impatiently out of ear shot. The Paladin listened carefully, asking many questions to clarify one point or another, but Nathanial felt his resistance to what he said drop away as he spoke. At the end, his listener shook his head in sorrow.

"It isn't often that I am deceived, but it appears that it is possible. My apologies to you and your people," he offered a small bow to Nathanial, who experienced a wave of relief. "So what do you do now? This woman Khezrial sounds a considerable opponent."

Nathanial shook his head, "I have no ideas. Marcus may be captive or dead, and I cannot bring myself to leave him behind, but I cannot begin to know how to find him."

The Paladin nodded and put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder for a moment.

"I would go to see the temple, and Ramses' grave. There are rites to be performed for him that you would not know of. When I return, perhaps I may be of help to you in finding your brother."

Nathanial looked up in surprise at the offer and stuttered out thanks. The Paladin rose to his feet in a single fluid motion and headed in the direction he'd pointed. Nathanial considered things for a moment, reluctant to return to the agony of decision over whether to go or stay. When he felt he could no longer delay, he returned to his companions.

"Well!" Whisper exclaimed the moment he entered, "What's happening?"

Nathanial looked around at who was with them.

"Where's Yadros?"

"Watering the bushes I believe," answered Leto, "he also said something about a cookfire."

Nathanial nodded. Whisper cleared her throat and Nathanial considered the phrasing of his answer.

"I told him everything, and he wants to help us."

"What do you mean you told him everything?"

He gave Whisper a level stare and glanced at the newcomers who did not yet know their true mission.

"I told him _everything_."

She drew herself up at his tone and looked incensed.

"What gives you the right to.."

"Master, woman is approaching on foot, one approaching!" called Hugin from his rooftop perch.

The group froze and looked at each other in amazement.

"It couldn't be..." Whisper began with some doubt.

Nathanial thought as quickly as possible and drew his morningstar as he followed the rush out the door. He stopped Whisper at the entryway.

"We can't take the items out there!"

She huffed with impatience and looked longingly out into the courtyard. Her fingers gripped the hilt of her sword.

"Whisper," he continued, "if you stay here with the items, we can tell her you died and throw her off. She can't know otherwise and it may give us an advantage."

He could see the acceptance of his logic struggle with her desire for violence. The victory was by a narrow margin and she gave a curt nod. Leto and Nathanial handed her their pouches and she began to pace along an inner wall with her sword ready.

Leto quirked a smile at the sight and followed Nathanial out, ready to meet another agent of Khezrial.

To their surprise, they had already met. The tall woman in the elegant red robe was the one who had tried to trick Ta'arnkap into stealing the items, then set her minions upon them. At the memory of that battle's outcome Nathanial tightened his grip on the morningstar, hoping that despite the woman's apparent lack of heart, she could still be made to bleed. She was deep in conversation with Yadros when they approached which made Nathanial stiffen warily. She gave him a malicious smile veiled in complete sweetness when she caught his eye.

"Nathanial dear boy, how nice of you to join us. Yadros here was telling me all sorts of things about your adventures. So sorry to hear about Ramses."

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to relax, remembering an old adage about angry fools.

"I understand you have one of your own now," he replied with equal calm, "or at least you did."

Her expression tightened almost imperceptibly, but she kept the smile.

"Wherever is Whisper? I was looking forward to meeting her. Especially now as she's famous."

The woman held out a familiar reward poster, and Nathanial thanked the powers that be that Whisper had stayed behind.

"Hadn't you heard?" he said in a steady voice, "She was killed in the fight to retrieve Ramses' body."

He'd scored a hit, but again the change was almost imperceptible.

"So sorry to hear that." She said casually, tossing the poster to the ground.

Yadros looked puzzled, and Nathanial could feel himself start to sweat. He searched his mind for some way, other than physically assaulting the man, to prevent the words about to come.

"That's quite misleading of you Nathanial," he said, flipping through his notes and missing the frantic signals around him, "Yes she was killed, but now that she's been resurrected she should be quite all right. So you see my dear," he addressed the triumphant woman, "there is no need to mourn."

For a fleeting moment, she looked ready to walk towards the building where Whisper lay waiting. She took no more than a step, however, before she hesitated. Nathanial moved to stand in her path and one eyebrow rose in amusement.

"Little boy, you will soon learn better than to stand in my way."

The sound of steel on leather broke their locked eyes. She turned to find the Paladin standing with his sword drawn.

"My dear Arturo, so glad to see you. I thought I would come by and see how you're getting along. "

"Madam, I would not be so glad. Deceiving a Paladin of Kalidine is a grave thing; using one to attempt evil even more so."

She turned back to Nathanial without an answer.

"Come now," she purred, "we're all civilized. I need the trinkets you carry. There must be something you need in return. Perhaps we could strike a deal."

Nathanial shook his head, tired of the verbal sparring. He could tell the others were growing restless waiting for an attack, but he wanted her to move first.

"You have nothing," he replied impatiently, "that I would trade my honor for."

The woman's eyes gleamed with malice as she held out an item in her hand. She held an ornate silver clasp that had once secured Marcus's cloak. Nathanial felt dizzy when he recognized it, and a cry of despair struggled up from somewhere inside him. His world began to spin slightly as the woman held his gaze.

Her voice dripped with honeyed venom, knowing the struggle that went on inside Nathanial.

"Not even," she asked sweetly, "for him?"


	16. Foundling Fire

_Author's Note: Due to a good suggestion, I'll soon be uploading a running guide to all the people, places, and things requiring explanation in this story, as well as a brief history of the place it happens. It will always be the last chapter, and can be used for reference. However, if you feel I'm pulling something out of left field, or don't give someone enough air time, please let me know for the next draft! Thanks for the feedback!_

**THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE**

**Chapter 16: Foundling Fire**

* * *

"_Rest now, there is no need to fear."_

"_Where am I, what is this place? Am I dead?"_

"_No child, you are quite alive."_

"_You find that funny?"_

"_I find many things funny, usually when others do not. But that does not stop them from being funny, it reflects only on the others listening. Now lie back and breathe. The steam from the herbs will hasten your healing."_

"_Where am I? Your accent is unfamiliar."_

"_As is your own, stranger with the long ears._ _No I do not pry. You are safe here. Now sleep, for you will very soon be needed. You bring our destruction in your wake, but it is no fault of yours. You also bring salvation, and sooner than you think."_

His eyes flicked from the amulet in the woman's hands to the malice in her eyes.

"I can bring him to you, your beloved Marcus," she continued, "or tell you where he is, in exchange for a few baubles, certainly not worth his life."

Nathanial's hand brushed against the hilt of the sword Marcus had given him to look after. _A family heirloom_, he had called it. Family.

He remembered Monk, who'd trusted him at his word to protect these bits of metal with his life. He would fight to the death to keep that word, but it wasn't his own life in question now. Closing his fingers around the hilt of his brother's sword, Nathanial looked deep inside himself and found steel to match the blade in his hands. He lifted his eyes to hers.

"You would blackmail him to me, witch?" he hissed.

Every fiber of his being screamed that he was signing into death the only family he'd known since he was ten. But a small, steady voice spoke above the pain and reminded him that if Marcus was alive there was a chance, but if this woman got what she wanted she would almost certainly kill him. His voice was curiously distant and calm despite the turmoil in his guts.

"He found me once," Nathanial said, "he will find me again."

She gave him a look of sneering pity. "He would have to cross the heavens to do so."

He looked up into her eyes and saw her expression tightened warily.

"He found me once, he will find me again."

Inside of him, the spark of hope flickered and took root. He felt somehow that he would know if Marcus were dead. If he was wrong, then all he could do would be to hope that his decision now would at least be one his brother might have been proud of.

The woman straightened and tossed the amulet into the dirt at his feet. His tension was so fierce that the slight noise of metal on stone almost startled him into a scream.

"Very well then, good day to you."

Four people leapt forward at once to restrain her as she spoke an incantation and disappeared from sight. Nathanial stood frozen to the spot, staring at the amulet half buried in the dust. Lira stepped up and put a tentative hand on his shoulder, but he could not bring himself to look up. She knelt and retrieved the amulet, using her sleeve to wipe it clean.

"Be careful," Nathanial snapped suddenly and knocked it from her hand, "She could have cursed it somehow. No one touch it until we know."

He took a perverse pleasure in the shock on the faces around him at the unexpected outburst. Lira stepped away from him and threw a helpless look at the others.

Yadros was the first to break the silence. After studying the amulet curiously from a distance he stepped forward.

"I have the means to find out, if you'd like, but it will take at least an hour."

Nathanial nodded curtly, grateful for the small relief of time.

"An hour it is then," he decided quietly, "everyone stay watchful in case she sends more of her pets for us. And pack up. We leave the moment the spell is done."

He turned on one heel and marched back to the building with measured tread. Whisper met him at the door with impatient questions, but held her tongue when she caught sight of his haunted face. Leto followed close behind and pulled Whisper aside to explain. Their eyes followed Nathanial with sympathy as he marched past them both without acknowledgement. He walked until he could go no further. He had come to a dead end where the roof had collapsed into the hallway and blocked the passage. There he chose a boulder that would hide him from view and sat against it, leaning his forehead against the cool rock. After a moment of pure panicked doubt at what he'd done, Nathanial pulled his brother's sword and scabbard from his belt, and wept.

* * *

A raised murmur of voices from inside the keep crept slowly into his awareness. He realized suddenly that he'd fallen asleep and berated himself for his negligence. Opening his eyes and struggling to his feet, he cursed intently as blood flow returned to his wooden legs. 

"You get used to it after a while."

He spun around and nearly fell as the muscles in his legs failed to react with anything but a sensation of tiny needles. Leto was sitting with his back to Nathanial and his own legs folded intricately on top of one another. With his usual casual grace he unfolded and rose to his feet in one swift motion.

"Stand on your toes for a moment, it will pass much faster."

Nathanial took the advice and felt sensation return painfully to his legs. He eyed Leto in some confusion, not sure whether he should resent the monk for intruding on his grief, or thank him for his help. He settled on a compromise.

"What are you doing here?"

Leto shrugged and yawned, "I didn't think anyone should be separated for long. And I knew that near you would be the only place I could go to meditate without interruption from the harpies out there."

Nathanial nodded without meeting his eyes. He strung Marcus's sword and sheath onto his belt and wiped the remains of tears from his face. Leto politely pretended to inspect the caved-in ceiling while he did so.

"Ready? It sounds like something's going on."

"Isn't there always?" Leto replied with a grin. Nathanial managed a faint smile in return and led the way back to where the group was gathered.

They found their companions embroiled in an argument at the edge of the drop where Ramses' rope still dangled. As they caught sight of him the discussion died, and Nathanial gritted his teeth against the looks of pity he received. Lira was the only one excited to see him and practically crowed with her good news. He noticed she had pinned the amulet to her own cloak.

"I take it there wasn't a curse?"

Not that our odd little mage could find," she grinned broadly and flicked the amulet with one fingernail, "just something to keep us from locating his whereabouts from it. But I do have news that might just perk you up a bit: I've found Marcus's tracks."

Nathanial's head snapped up and he gave her a keen stare.

"Are you sure?"

"Course I'm sure," she asserted with flippant indignation, "They stand out as bright as day. I do have to say for such a great tracker he wasn't too worried about being followed himself, was he? Shall we?" She gestured down at the pit they had descended into days ago in search of Ramses.

Nathanial felt an eerie synchronicity between that trip and the one proposed. He could only hope for a different outcome. With held breath and a nod he took hold of Ramses' rope and slid carefully down into the darkness.

He closed his eyes before striking an alchemical light, creating a red flash on the inside of his eyelid that outlined the thin tracery of blood in the skin. He felt something impact the ground beside him and looked to find Leto turned and ready to catch Hooch. The dog followed, and others began to climb cautiously down the rope. Lira took a moment to study the ground before setting off briskly with her eyes glued to the floor.

* * *

Without Lira's newfound ability to see the tracks of their quarry, they never would have found the door hidden cleverly behind the remains of a tattered wall hanging. The light of the room was such that it lay in shadow, and no trace of magic alerted those sensitive to it. They stepped through and found themselves outside the wall of the keep, looking up at a forested canopy. Nathanial uttered a curse under his breath foul enough to shock even Whisper. 

"We're outside…" he said unnecessarily, "we've been waiting this whole time and they haven't even been in the keep."

"I hope," Whisper scolded him, "this will teach you to follow orders when you've been given them. If so we would have caught up to them by now."

She turned and found, to her disgruntlement, that she was lecturing to thin air. The retreating sound of running footsteps echoed back to her from inside the keep. She repeated the curse Nathanial had used before and hurried after him.

The newcomers had caught the urgency of the situation, and did not hesitate to follow them through the gates and along the outside wall of the keep. Lira had given Nathanial's horse a skeptical look when he tossed her the reins, but rode with the ease of past familiarity. The animal was the same one he had chosen from Monk's stable, and hd proven to be quiet and well-mannered. Nathanial soon stopped worrying about her when found himself entirely occupied with Marcus's warhorse.

An uncanny intelligence shone in the horse's eyes, although he was not above shying stupidly at every falling leaf to test his rider. Nathanial needed every bit of skill he'd ever picked up in stables he'd worked for to stay in the saddle and keep the big racer from leaving the others far behind. He soon found that the animal responded only to commands in Marcus's native language, although he seemed to understand the insults directed at him in the common tongue. Any attempts at physical force or punishment earned a snap of teeth at the toe of his boot.

Lira kept her eyes on the ground in near indifference to her speed and direction, slowing occasionally to change directions as Marcus's tracks doubled back closely on the tricky Dwarf's. She reined in to a stop as they emerged from the woods into a wide, sunny meadow. Nathanial blinked furiously against the sudden glare of light, then wrestled the horse back to where the others had pulled up. Lira had dismounted and let the reins fall the the ground. With calm practicality the Paladin leaned over and took up her horse's reins to prevent the animal from straying. Lira hardly noticed as she paced up and down the length of the meadow with a hard frown of fierce concentration. When she crouched down to touch the ground where the grasses were matted and trampled, Nathanial began to fidget with impatience. When she rose, she looked at her fingertips with such pain that he could no longer stand to wait.

"Well?" he said with an explosion of breath.

She looked up at him with dread on her face and scrubbed her fingers against the leg of her breeches.

"He entered the field over there. He and the Dwarf were both running so he may have been close on his heels."

Taking up a stalk of wild wheat to point with, she gestured from one end of the field to another.

"Over there, a rider entered the field and rode into the fight. The Dwarf's tracks continue on, but Marcus's do not."

She stood abruptly and strode to a place where the ground had been torn up in great clumps and scattered.

"They fought, Marcus pulled the rider off their horse."

She moved abruptly back to the area of matted grass. Her hand hovered over the spot as if wanting to touch it again, yet reluctant to know what she would find. She looked down to avoid meeting Nathanial's eyes.

"This…this is where Marcus fell."

A ringing in his ears began, and Nathanial rejected the words he had heard, "What do you mean, fell?" he asked with a catch in his breath.

Lira finally met his eyes, and the sympathy in her gaze was almost more than Nathanial could bear.

"You know what I mean, Boy…..he was struck down. The ground is soaked with his blood…wait," she interrupted herself, "there's more tracks, other riders?"

She stalked off to the north with the same intensity she had shown before.

"There's more tracks…It looks like a whole group of riders, but it isn't any easier to read. I don't know how long after…when they came in, but they pause where Marcus fell, and they returned North. They might have taken the body."

"The body!" Nathanial exclaimed, "Why would they take a dead body? He _must_ still be alive!"

"Unless, of course," Yadros offered casually, "they are of a cannibal race of some ki-"

He was cut off abruptly as Whisper hooked one foot behind his and deftly tipped him halfway out of the saddle. His horse jittered restlessly under the sudden imbalance, and he clung helplessly to the side until the half-orc Kujo picked him up easily by one arm and set him back in the saddle where he belonged.

"Stay there," he grunted in admonishment.

Yadros nodded his thanks and gave Whisper a puzzled, accusatory look, which she pointedly refused to acknowledge.

Gamaliel held a conversation with Hugin in low murmurs. The raven nodded his head sharply and launched himself from his master's shoulder. When he was out of sight Gamaliel turned to the others in explanation.

"He will find where these riders came from, and their numbers. It is never wise to rush into an unknown situation."

Nathanial reluctantly acknowledged the truth of that, but seethed with impatience nevertheless. It seemed to last a year, but it was only a few moments before Hugin returned with news.

"There is a village of tents in a valley just beyond the trees," he reported, "but I don't think you want to go there."

"Why is that?" Whisper demanded.

"Because it's on fire."

Memories of Whitefall flashed through Nathanial's head, and before the others could speak he was urging the horse towards the north at a breakneck gallop.

He didn't notice the branches whipping his face as they passed through a short line of trees. The horse, finally free of restraint, seemed to fly over the rough ground with hooves barely skimming the earth. As they crested a low rise and broke from the line of trees, Nathanial saw the tent village of a caravan spread before him.

The reins nearly pulled his arms from his socket before he managed to slow to a restless halt. Nathanial surveyed the chaotic scene before him in confusion. Tribesmen on small, swift horses dodged the swing of spiked clubs from ogres towering above them. The agile horses and riders danced in to score the ogres' armor with cunningly wielded short-spears. The legless creatures that had set fire to Whitefall crawled amongst the smoking tents while a group of women tried to hold them off by swinging sticks and pots. Another group of women and older youths passed water from a stream to battle the fire itself. And in the center of the village rose the head of a giant, crushing the bodies of tribesmen with twin clubs, each the size of a well-grown horse.

"Nathanial!" came the cry behind him as the others caught up to where he had stayed the horse. Whisper pulled up to one side of him and surveyed the scene with a dispassionate eye.

"Give the items to Lira, she'll keep them away from the fight and out of danger," she ordered briskly. Nathanial fumbled for his beltpouch and tossed it to the bard.

"Those are important, so if anything but us comes near you, run." Whisper barked to her as Lira stowed the pouch in her saddlebag.

Lira gave a mocking salute with apparent relief and wheeled her horse back towards the cover of trees, "You don't have to tell me twice."

Whisper spurred her horse towards the battle with her falchion drawn. The Paladin and Kujo followed swiftly.

"Ye ken, ah think tha beech has been lookin farward ta this fer weeks." Ta'arnkop drawled.

There was a strangled sound from Gamaliel's shoulder as Hugin resisted the impulse to repeat the curse. After a moment of struggle he was successful and settled proudly back. Nathanial looked at him thoughtfully a moment, an idea blossoming in his head.

"Ta'arnkop," he said slowly, "remember the message tube?"

"Aye. Wha' fer?"

"If it's broken, the sorceress is drawn to it, right?"

"Tha's wha' tha lizard sayd."

"So what if it were dropped a mile from the battle?"

Ta'arnkop nodded briskly and rummaged in his pack for the sorceress's message tube. Nathanial turned back to Gamaliel.

"May we borrow Hugin?"

"I can see your intention and it is acceptable to me."

"Whaaa?" Squawked Hugin as he launched himself from his master's shoulder and landed on a branch safely out of reach, "what if it's not acceptable to _me_?"

"Weell then," Ta'arnkop drawled, "ye'd ratha fight wi'us then?"

He held the message tube out on the palm of his hand. Hugin looked at him suspiciously.

"Or," Nathanial added, "You could take the tube and fly _away_ from the battle. All you have to do is drop it and return."

The bird cocked its head to one side, studying the tube.

"Just drop it?" he asked plaintively.

"That's all," Nathanial re-assured him, "and from a good height. If it summons the sorceress she won't even be able to see you."

"I have the feeling," Hugin muttered as he spread his wings, "that I'll regret this."

He snatched the tube neatly from Ta'arnkop's hand and began to climb into the air. Gamaliel watched him go with his usual cryptic calm, then turned back to face the battle.

"I do not participate in violence," he said to their surprise, "but I will pray for those who's cause is just."

Ta'arnkop looked ready to explode in scornful outrage at the idea of prayer being any help. It was lucky that he was interrupted before he could manage more than a few words.

"Well Well! Now there's a familiar face!"

They all snapped their heads around, weapons half-drawn. Yadros was staring intently at the far end of the village with a slight smile on his face that never reached his eyes. Nathanial followed his gaze and saw the Sorceress herself, leading a wedge of ogres towards a single tent set slightly apart from the others. His mind leapt to the possibility that Marcus lay in that tent, and that she somehow knew. With a growled oath he drew his Morningstar and booted his horse in that direction. The animal lay its ears back and bucked once in protest of the rough treatment, but broke obligingly into a run. Nathanial clung to the horse's mane and shouted to it in his other tongue, "If you wish to save your master you will keep that woman from the tent!"

Whether the horse understood him or simply responded to his hatred, he picked up speed as he approached the battleground. Nathanial's respect for the animal rose to new heights as he wove between the ranks of ogres and somehow avoided the deadly rain of arrows. One caught him a glancing blow that left a deep gash in his side, but he barely felt it through the battle-high that had taken hold of him. His eyes were locked on the woman striding towards the lonely tent with a sneer of triumph. It was only when his sight of her was interrupted by a falling body that he tore his gaze upwards to what stood between him and his target.

The braver tribesmen rode in a circle around the giant. With reins held in their teeth they fired a wave of arrows into its hide like tiny needles, maddening the creature further. No one had yet drawn real blood on the giant, yet several dozen bodies of both tribesmen and horses lay crushed and forgotten at its feet. Its eyes locked on the small figure racing towards him and it gave a bellow of challenge.

Nathanial was prepared, and knew his Morningstar would be useless here. He reached into the recesses of his mind for the power that had incapacitated the spider of chains in the keep. He built up the pressure in his mind until it became unbearable; warm drops of blood began to fall from his nose and were whipped across his face by the rushing wind. With an answering roar he lashed the power out at the creature before him, feeling it penetrate the flesh and strike at the simple mind. As he rode past, the giant gave a long groan and toppled forward onto its face. Tribesmen rushed to avoid being crushed by the fall and a high, ringing cheer sounded out across the battlefield. The mounted archers turned their attention to the ranks of ogres and the tide of battle began to turn. The sorceress turned in surprise as the guards behind her fell under the onslaught, and caught the impact of Nathanial's morningstar across one cheekbone as he rode to meet her.

With a shriek of rage spraying blood from her mouth, she lifted her hands and directed a spell at Nathanial that knocked him from the saddle. He rolled quickly to avoid being trampled by the war-maddened horse and struggled to his feet still gripping the handle of his weapon. The sorceress's ogre guards caught the attention of the horse and drew the fight away from their mistress, squealing in pain as they were battered by sharpened hooves. Nathanial met the woman's eyes without fear, and a slow glittering smile of malice returned to her face.

"Little boys should not play the games of men."

With a growl he lifted his morningstar with trembling hands. She raised her arms and hurled a new spell in his direction. He braced himself for the impact, but it never came. There was a blinding flash of light in front of him and a light smell of sulfur hung in the air.

"Now really, how impolite of you," a familiar voice said from behind him. He heard Yadros step to one side of him, leaving a clear shot. The woman's eyes narrowed at this unexpected interference and followed Yadros warily. He continued to circle her slowly away from Nathanial, drawing her gaze. She gave a sudden movement of her hands and another flash of light burned in front of her without effect. She gritted her teeth and carefully spit blood onto the ground.

"Well done magician, well done. Now we only have to find out how many spells you have in your power. I need only find one you cannot counter."

"Likewise I'm sure. Shall we find out? It would at least be amusing."

His movement was blindingly fast and he spoke no words, but another flash of light stopped the intended effect. When her back was finally to Nathanial he raised the morningstar and stepped in. Sensing the attack, her attention was suddenly divided between the two. Nathanial swung the morningstar with a cry as Yadros raised his hands to cast, but the weapon met only air and the spell shot past Nathanial's left shoulder. Behind him a tree exploded in a shower of bark, but he could only stare numbly at the place where the sorceress had stood a moment before. Yadros muttered a curse, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Nathanial turned and saw the remains of a smoky pillar rising to the sky.

"_The message tube…." _he wailed to himself, "_why did he have to drop it now?"_

He drove his morningstar into the ground with a blow that numbed his hands. Leaving it there he stumbled towards the tent. He pulled the flap to one side and stared numbly through the mist that seemed to fill it. There was a small brazier in the center emitting strange perfumed smoke. An old man sat cross-legged before it in a loincloth, his belongings arranged neatly on a nearby cot. There was no sign of Marcus.


End file.
